


The Witch's Brat

by PeregrineBones



Category: Original Work
Genre: Coming of Age, Destiny, Dragons, F/M, Fantasy, Growing Up, M/M, Magic, Original Character(s), Romance, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2019-12-25 10:05:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 83,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18259097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeregrineBones/pseuds/PeregrineBones
Summary: A girl with a destiny. Two boys destined for each other. A cruel brotherhood that is threatening to destroy their world. A friendship powerful enough to save it. Oh, also magic, music, dragons, werewolves, kittens  and witches. A fantasy adventure, with some adult content and themes.





	1. Prologue

It was a short, dark day - the shortest day of the year, Gammer explained, as she went about her chores. She stopped frequently to tickle the small bright boy, or sing a song with him. Sometimes she would pause in her tasks long enough to sit by the fire and play a quick round of _Cat in the Attic, Mouse in the Cellar,_ a game the boy had invented himself to pass the lonely hours. It involved several wooden shingles which he had stuck into the rough hearth stones at different levels. It was played with some intricately carved wooden figures that had been given to him as a special gift from a foreign land.

After lunch Gammer took down the ancient Grimoire from its hiding place in a secret panel above her bed.  She unlocked the book with the key that she wore always around her neck and opened it. She turned the pages until she came to a beautifully illustrated page, glittering with gilded drawings of the sun, the moon and the earth against a deep azure background. She explained all about the movements of the planets and the stars, about how the days grew short in winter and then grew longer and longer as the seasons changed, until, by high summer the sun barely disappeared below the horizon at all. As she talked the shimmering images of the heavenly bodies slowly moved across the page, rotating around each other with gentle majesty, while the little boy looked on with wide eyes.

Still, by late afternoon the boy grew bored. It was too cold to go out and play in the deep snow that buried their small clay cottage. Purple darkness was falling in the woods that surrounded them and the boy became fretful.

“Come with me,” Gammer coaxed as he restlessly circled the small cottage, filled with pent up energy he could not release. “You can play in the loft while I milk the goats. Bundle up, though,” she added. “It's very cold out.”

The boy donned heavy knitted leggings, a woolen sweater, and a coat made of an old blanket. He put on worn leather boots that were only a little bit too big. He followed Gammer out into the snowy yard, where the first stars were shining in the deep blue sky. _It looked just like the illustration in the Grimoire,_ the boy thought, staring upwards. The cold froze the hairs inside his nose and made the snow crackle under his feet. He ran ahead and flung himself into the deep clean snow. His breath came out in white billowing clouds and his childish laughter echoed among the bare branches of the trees. Gammer stood and watched him play, smiling at him with deep love in her eyes. At last they grew cold and she made him come with her into the barn which was warmed by the musky breath of the goats.

The boy played in the haymow, climbing up onto a ledge and jumping into a huge stack of the soft, fragrant hay. He climbed and jumped over and over, until his cheeks were rosy and his eyes were bright. When he grew tired he settled himself in the pen with the baby goats, who licked his hands and butted at his head and tried to climb onto his back. The babies entertained him until Gammer was done with the chores and they headed across the dark yard to the cottage. She held a brimming milk bucket in each hand. The boy followed in her footsteps, taking giant steps so he could reach the prints her boots made in the freshly fallen snow. The moon had risen while they were inside. It rode in the clear cold sky, lighting their way, and the boy felt it calling him, pulling at him, though he didn’t understand why.

Halfway across the yard, Gammer stopped suddenly. She shaded her eyes and looked up at the wintery sky. The boy, focussed on his giant steps, nearly bumped into her, then followed her gaze upward. There was a new light shining there, brighter than the brightest star. As bright as the moon. It made a slow arc across the heavens, lighting up the snow with a weird yellowish glow. A tail of sparks streamed behind it like a river of fire. It moved slowly across the sky and the boy felt a strange grabbing sensation in his chest, as if something was pulling deep at his insides. Gammer dropped the milk buckets with a clatter and clutched at her heart. The boy felt as if the earth were shifting beneath his feet. The world tilted weirdly. The shimmering light undulated and swirled across his vision, growing brighter and brighter until it nearly blinded him and he had to shut his eyes. He heard a loud rumble - deep and echoing, as if the very stuff of the world was being torn apart. The earth shook and he fell to the ground.

Then it was over. The bright light in the sky was gone. The boy could still see it burning against his eyelids but when he opened them he saw only the familiar blue glow of the moon upon the snow. The world had stopped shaking and everything was still. Gammer picked him up and hugged him. She gathered up the empty milk buckets and they went back into the warm cottage. She fed him his supper and made him go to bed, but after he was tucked up between the sheets she sat by the fire for a long, long time, leafing through the pages of the ancient Grimoire, searching for answers.

 

*********

In a high tower far away another little boy sat in the shadows and watched as a bright comet streamed across the sky. He felt the earth rumble and shake. A man with dragon wings held a newborn baby aloft. Their forms were silhouetted darkly against the light, which grew ever brighter in the sky. The air around the baby sparkled and crackled with magic. Her cry filled the cold night air and mixed with the sound of the man’s triumphant laughter.


	2. Ashes

The sailor was looking for her. He had been looking for her for over two months. His ship was in dry dock, and he still had over a fortnight left before it sailed.

He was far, far, from his native land where the sun shone every day and the green of the mountains rising up from the sea was rich and deep. He was far from the island where he was born, where the waves tumbling onto the white sand beaches had lulled him to sleep every night of his childhood, and where sometimes, he had heard the mermaids singing. Here he walked through a land of pale green hills, dotted with sheep, a land rolling endlessly toward a sky that was so pale it was almost white. There were small stretches of forest where the leaves had turned russet and which smelled, to this man of the sea, of decay.

Over the past few days the weather had turned nasty. A chill wind blew down from the north. Rain had been falling in fits and starts. He did not care for this country, but he reckoned it was where she would go. It was her home. Her magic was tied to the clay beneath his feet. He trudged steadily through the rain. Every hour or so he would cast a finding spell, as had become his habit. As had been usual of late, he had no luck.

As evening fell he came upon a small village. It was a collection of humble clay houses around a church. There were a few tiny shops, a large hollow barn where, on market days, sheep were traded and bales of wool were bid on. There was a pub which let beds to wayfarers in its drafty attic. The Ram’s Horn it was called. A curling horn, yellowed with age, hung from two rusty chains above the door, creaking in the chilly wind. The sailor opened the wooden door cautiously. He was met by a rush of warm air which smelled of stale beer and unwashed men.

“Close the door man!” called a harsh, but not unfriendly voice. “You be lettin’ all the warmth out! What ails ye?”

The sailor quickly shut the door and looked about him. The pub was a bit grimy, but cleaner than many in these parts. There was a cheerful fire crackling in the hearth and the bar appeared well stocked. At this early hour the man at the bar was the sole patron, and he was clearly already well into his cups. The sailor was pleased. The village drunkard was often the best source of information in any town. The man at the bar gestured him over and the sailor crossed the straw strewn floor to shake his hand.

He had used many names in his long and complicated life, but over the past 10 years Tobias Goodkind had served him well. He must use a false name here though. He introduced himself as Jack and offered to buy the man an ale. Two hours later, as the pub was filling up he had the information he had been seeking. There was a new healer, who lived at the edge of the town. She kept to herself, but was good with potions, lotions, love charms and wards. Only the age seemed wrong. The drunkard kept referring to this woman as a hag, and an old girl, but it was the first real lead he’d had. He bought a bowl of stew for himself and one for his new friend. He paid for a bed in the drafty attic for the night. He felt a stirring of hope for the first time in months. Perhaps tomorrow he would find her.

********

When he woke the next morning the room was icy cold. He would have been frozen were he not wrapped up in his wolverine fur cloak. The only water was a chilly trickle coming from a rusty tap outdoors. He washed as best he could, doussing his head in the icy water to discourage lice, and said a short charm for good measure. He paid a copper penny for a bowl of porridge and a cup of weak tea and was on the road, walking up into the hills where the old drunk had instructed him to go, before the sun was well up in the sky.

He spent the morning roaming the empty hills above the town but it was useless. Clearly she had chosen to conceal herself from him. This knowledge made his heart ache, but he could do nothing about it. He did not understand when or how he had lost her trust, but there it was. Occasionally he thought he caught a scent of her, the rosemary wash she used to rinse her hair, or a whiff of human shit. He saw an occasional glimmer between the trees. It was cold but the sun was shining. The sky was a deep azure. The air was dry, all the moisture in it frozen and sucked into tiny wisps of cumulus clouds, millions of tiny ice crystals, swirling high above. At sea the air was never this clear. Even on the sunniest day it was softened by the salt spray that continually put moisture into the air. Tobias was far from his element. His magic was weaker here among the grasses and the heather and the sheep, for he was a sea mage.

He did not want to do what he knew he must. He sat on his haunches and whispered a spell, soft and coaxing. After a few minutes a rabbit came out of the low scrub, wide eyed and trembling. It approached his outstretched fingers in short, cautious hops, its whiskers vibrating furiously. It sniffed at him. He stroked the soft fur between its ears. Then, in one swift motion, he grabbed it by both ears and wrung its neck in his large calloused hands. It emitted a brief, high pitched scream and went limp and silent.

He removed a knife from his belt. It was carbon steel, with a fine black patina, the edge well honed. The handle was of narwhal horn, carved with runes of power. It was his livelihood and his primary weapon of defense. He’d had it since he was a boy. It had been given to him by his tearful parents when he had sailed away from them on his first voyage. He’d only been 14. That ship had been a whaler, and he had nearly frozen to death that first winter on the Northern Sea.

Now he used the knife to slit the rabbit’s throat. He hung it and bled it into a small flask which he produced from deep in his cloak. The blood steamed in the frigid air. Its salty tang reminded him of the sea. He took a long swallow of the hot delicious blood, then sealed the flask with a spell and returned it carefully to his cloak. He would need it soon.

He uttered a spell of gratitude, to the rabbit, for helping him, for giving its life, and a binding spell, to bind the rabbit’s spirit to his own. He would need all the quiet strength of the rabbit to draw her to him. He gutted the rabbit and buried the entrails. He tied the rabbit to a stick, wiped his knife in the grass, and returned it to his belt. He walked along the scrub at the edge of the field until he found a trail that led up into the hills. With the rabbit’s blood, he drew a finding rune on a white rock at the entrance to the trail, then recited a spell to hide it from all eyes but hers.

He walked up into the hills, the dead rabbit dangling over his shoulder. The leaves rustled beneath his feet, releasing their spicy, musty scent. The trees about him were clothed in yellow and orange. At every fork in the trail he chose the one that went higher, marking his choice with the finding rune in the rabbit’s blood, and repeating the incantation. As he ascended, the clouds rolled in and the sky darkened. By eventide there was a steady drizzle falling among the leaves.

He made camp in a small clearing that looked out over the valley below. He took the last of the rabbit’s blood and sprinkled it in a circle around his campsite. All the wood around him was soaked. He was not skilled at fire magic, but he gathered wood and drove the water from it with a spell. He got a fire going with flint and steel. He cooked the rabbit and made sure to eat it all, the liver, the heart, the brains, chewing the bones to get at the marrow. With this act the drawing spell was sealed. Now all he had to do was wait. He fervently hoped that this would work. If it failed, he had no idea what he would do next.

He made a lean-to shelter out of a sealskin tarp, tying it to the trees above and pegging it to the ground with stakes he carved with his knife. He wrapped himself in the wolverine cloak. He heard the hoot of an owl echoing through the treetops, and a second owl returned the call. A few moments later he heard the scream of a rabbit, brief and sharp, clearly the owl’s dinner. He shuddered. He did not like these woods. He felt claustrophobic here, closed in, far from his source of power. He feared the howl of the wolves that ran in these woods and fields, but tonight he did not hear them. He pulled his cloak tighter around him. The fire was still burning as he fell asleep.

********

When he opened his eyes the grey light of morning was filtering through the yellow leaves and she was sitting by the cold fire, silently, her dark eyes upon him. He understood now why the village drunk referred to her as a hag. He had not seen her in many months, but she had aged by ten years at least. Her youthful beauty had vanished. Her hair was a grey cloud curling about her face which was lined with care. Her posture was stooped. Her clothing was tattered black rags. Only her eyes were still youthful, the whites clear, the irises dark brown, burning in her face as she looked at him with deep hunger.

“Tobias,” she breathed.

“Hello Calliope.”

He lifted the edge of the cloak. She crawled in next to him and she was in his arms and they were laughing and crying together. They pulled off her rain soaked rags until she was naked, except for a golden key on a chain about her neck. They made love with a fierceness that encompassed both the joy of their reunion and the sorrow of all they had endured.

Then they lay together, skin to skin, the heat from their spent bodies trapped in the wolverine fur around them. The rain was dripping from the edges of their sealskin shelter. The warmth was tropical, soporific. It felt so good just to hold each other, and they did, for a long, long time, but at last the silence between them grew too deep. Sadly, he knew it must be broken.

“You hid from me,” he said, and then regretted it. He did not mean it to sound as it did, an accusation.

She was looking off into the distance, her eyes unfocussed. “I was afraid,” she said at last.

“You have been through a terrible time,” he said.

“They killed our baby,” she said hollowly, looking out into the trees. Her sorrow was beyond tears.

“I know,” he said. “I have his ashes.”

She looked at him sharply then, her sorrow replaced by fear. “You shouldn’t have,” she said. “They will know you are connected to me. They will follow you.”

He shrugged. “I paid well for the undertaker’s silence. And I did my best to hide my trail.”

“I’ll die before I go back into their hands,” she said fiercely.

“I thought we deserved a chance to bury our son.”

“He was beautiful, Tobias.”

“I never met him.”

“He looked like you. His skin was like coffee with cream. His eyes were dark, almost black, like basalt. That’s what I called him, Basalt. He was a happy baby, laughed and smiled at an early age, way before the midwives said he should. And he had fire magic. He’d touch his fingers together and the sparks would fly, and he’d laugh his little baby laugh. He was my heart, Tobias.”

“We’ll have another baby,” Tobias said, tears filling his eyes.

“I don’t think I can, anymore,” she said. “My courses have stopped and have not returned. Look at me,” she said, gesturing towards herself. “I am old.”

“You are beautiful, “ he said, through his tears.

“He cried that whole night,” she said, her eyes off in the trees again. The rain fell steadily among the leaves. “Screamed and screamed. In the morning, they brought me his little broken body.”

“They are monsters,” he said. “Who would torture a little baby?”

“They had a point to prove. I had betrayed them. They have no pity.”

“They wanted to make you fear them.”

“And they have succeeded.”

“Come away with me,” he said, ‘“To the sea. I will take you home with me, to the island I grew up on. There they will respect and cherish you as a powerful enchantress. We can leave all this sorrow and fear behind.”

She looked at him then with pity. “You know I cannot, Tobias. My power is here, in the clay. And it is not over yet. I will work against them. And when the final battle is called, I will join in.”

“I will stay and help you,” he said stoutly.

“It is not your land, it is not your battle. Your power is in the sea.”

“I love you, Calliope,” he said.

“And I you, Tobias. How long until your ship sails?”

“Another fortnight.”

“I shall be glad to have you with me until then,” she said. “And I will wait for you to return to me after that, as you always have.” She stirred from him and started to gather her wet rags and put them on. With a spell he drove the water from them and she smiled at him gratefully.

“Come,” she said when she was dressed. “Let us bury our son.”

The small wooden box that contained the baby’s ashes was pitifully light. Tobias hefted it in his hand and wondered how it could contain the remains of the son he had never known. Calliope was dry eyed as she moved the earth to make a small grave, using a fallen branch to channel her power. They placed the tiny box in the earth, and covered it with the damp soil using their hands. Calliope traced a rune of protection and remembrance over the spot using the fallen branch, and Tobias chanted the prayer for the dead that he remembered from his island home.

And then they clung to each other and their tears fell, mingling with the steady drip of the rain, a balm soothing a wound that could never be healed.


	3. A Baby in a Basket

The fortnight they had together fled all too quickly. Calliope watched Tobias walk down the road and away from her one early morning when the frost was hard like iron on the dead grass in the fields. She stood and watched him until he disappeared around a curve in the road. She turned into her tiny, one room cottage and settled herself in for a long and lonely winter.

In later years, when she looked back, Calliope could never remember how she got through that first winter. Her loneliness and fear surrounded her like a dense, cold mist. There was never really enough food, or enough wood. The piercing wind blew down from the high crags of the mountains, laced with icy snow crystals that stung like needles. It blew in through the cracks in her walls, rattled the clay cap on her chimney.

The people of the village came to her for her potions, her charms, her advice, and her listening ear, making their way over the snowy trail up to her cottage. They paid her as they could; a sack of nuts, a bottle of milk, a basket of eggs, a bundle of firewood. Tobias had left her with dried strips of seal meat and blubber. She had some onions and potatoes she had managed to harvest from her first year’s garden in the rocky soil. She took her small light bow and went hunting in the woods. She occasionally brought down a hare or a ptarmigan. If she was careful, she would not starve.

She thought maybe her heart would starve, though. The ache from the death of her innocent little babe never left her. She missed Tobias so much she thought the loneliness would overtake her. It was only the promise of his return in the spring, that gave her the strength to get out of bed in the cold, dark mornings, start the small fire, make tea, sweep the floor. There was not much to do in the long cold days. One of the village women had brought her some soft fine wool in exchange for a love charm. At first Calliope had been disappointed by the payment in a form that she could not eat. But, stirred by boredom, she carved some knitting needles out of a couple of firm branches of ash. She sat by the small fire in the afternoons and knitted. She knitted a baby’s layette, thinking maybe she could sell it; wooly gowns and jackets, booties, a hat. She made it a size to fit her baby who was gone from her. It was morbid, she knew, but somehow she couldn’t stop herself.

At night the howling of the wolves echoed up from the river bottoms in the valley, where they ran and chased. It was too dark to knit, and Calliope got into bed early to save firewood. She bundled in her wool cloak, shivering until the bed warmed, and listened to them howl.

The dark nadir of the year came and went, the solstice, with the usual singing and candlelight in the village. Calliope went to church with her neighbors, though none would sit near her, as she was a witch. They would come to her for her cures and charms, share their deepest troubles with her, but none wanted to be seen with her in public, especially not under the eye of the elderly priest who stood at the altar and intoned the old prayers in a rusty voice that warbled on and on. He stared beadily at the assembled villagers as if he could look into their very souls and see the sins they hid there.

Then one freezing morning in January, just after the sun was up, she heard a short rap on her door. When she opened it there was a baby in a basket, wrapped in a wolfskin to keep the cold off him. A note pinned to his little homespun gown named him as Julian Thaddeus Widdershins. She picked him up and he howled furiously. She lifted his little gown and saw the bite of the wolf on his leg. She knew what that meant. The werewolves were scattered all about this country, and it wasn’t unusual for them to bite a child. Often these children were sacrificed, but occasionally the village healer would take them in, raise them as a familiar and assistant.

Calliope took the child into the cottage, cleaned him up, and dressed him in the warm woolen garments she had made. Her breasts ached to feed him but she had no milk. When she tried to nurse him he became frustrated and screamed, pounding his little fists. She made him a pottage of milk and oats, put through a fine sieve. He ate it hungrily off a small spoon, then fell asleep in her arms. She sat by the fire and stared at him. The firelight played over his sweet baby face, his snub nose, the soft brown curls of his hair. He looked to be about six months old.

So when Tobias returned in the spring, he found Calliope with a babe playing at her feet, and an air of contentment he had thought never to find in her again. The child was not his son. He looked nothing like him; soft brown curls, pink skin, blue eyes. He was a happy baby. He gurgled and cooed and clapped his hands together when something pleased him. He had no magic that Tobias could see. Calliope called him Tad, and loved him as a mother. Tobias did not know what to think. He had hoped to return to find her pregnant, but sadly, she told him, it was not to be. Her courses had not returned, she doubted they ever would. This werewolf baby was the only son they could ever hope to have.

It was a short visit, and Calliope could sense Tobias’ discontent, though they did not speak of it. She stood in the doorway with Tad in her arms and watched as once again, he walked down the road and away from her. She wondered if he would ever return. She kissed the top of Tad’s soft brown head. She had chosen her path.

********

Food was scarce in the village that spring. Everyone waited hungrily for the first green shoots in the gardens to turn into lettuce and peas and sweet green onions. Calliope was all right. Tobias had left her with more seal meat, and she had hoarded her meager supply of food so carefully that now she had enough to bring a pot of soup to an ailing village elder or to a mother with a new baby. She moved about the village streets with Tad on her back, and wherever she went she was welcomed, as long as the priest and his deacons were not watching.

All through the summer she tended her garden, and cared for Tad, taking joy as he grew strong and healthy in the clean summer sunshine. She traded her charms for milk and eggs. She watched his baby belly grow soft and round, his limbs dimpled and fat. By the time the days started to shorten and turn chilly he was pulling himself up on the simple furnishings in the cottage and taking his first toddling steps. She taught him to call her Gammer, and watched anxiously for Tobias’ return.

When he failed to appear she was not surprised, but the disappointment she felt was bitter nonetheless. There was nothing she could do, though. She gathered nuts and wood in the chilly forest, dried mushrooms and apples by the fire, filled the attic with pumpkins and onions from her garden. They would be all right.

Through the long dark winter days she knitted a wool jacket and leggings for the growing boy. She knitted a ball, stuffed with rags, for him to throw, a family of toy mice for him to play with. He was bored and restless, pale from lack of sun. He coughed a dry cough that she could not cure, though she tried many potions and spells. At night the little cottage seemed to echo with the harsh sound of his hacking. She knew the only cure was sunshine, and fresh food, but that was still months away.

There were no other children about. The mothers in the village came to Calliope regularly to treat a wart or a fever, a sick cow or a broken heart, but they kept their little ones away from Tad, the witch’s familiar. It went without saying that he was tainted in some way. Most people guessed that he had been bitten by a werewolf. In these parts, it was the most likely thing.

The dark winter solstice came and went, with singing in the church. In early February came Candlemas, followed by the Feast of the Bear. There was a bonfire in the village, and a wild circle dance. The boys wore bear masks, and chased after the girls, who twirled their skirts and shrieked in a most appealing way. They had no flour for pancakes, but Calliope made some potato cakes for herself and Tad, and they shared a bottle of elderberry wine she had been given in trade. They had a little celebration around their hearth. Calliope told Tad tales from long ago. She dramatized the stories with shadow puppets that she made with her hands in the flickering firelight. The wolf, the rabbit, the snake, the avenging raven. Tad’s baby eyes were wide with fascination.

As the fire burned low, Calliope took Tad in her lap and cuddled him.

“Of course,” she said, in a low, storytelling kind of voice, “I wasn’t always as you see me now.” She kissed the little boy, gently, on the nose. “Once I was young, and brave, and full of adventure. I had magic, you see, and my Gran, well, she encouraged me. I wanted to go and study at the great Ackadamy of Magicks, in Isinglass. My Da was against it. He said girls had no business learning magic, so I had to run off. Gran helped. She gave me food and money and got me a ride on a farmer’s cart, heading to the river. So I came down from the land of the clay and the sheep, and took passage on a barge. I sailed down the great river Pisces, through dark forests and fat farmlands and fields of wheat that waved on either side of the river and went on for days and days At last I came to the great city of Isinglass, all white and glittering. In those days, before the Brotherhood came, the streets of Isinglass were full of magic. There was an apothecary on every corner, and little booths that sold Glimpies and Wishstones and Charms. There were spells wrapped in red paper with gold lettering strung in the windows of the shops. In the great glittering Square of the Mages, outside the Ackadamy, the students used to hold fierce contests of magical ability and show off their skills. It was something to see, little one. At night Magick Street, which ran down from the Ackademy to the riverport fairly glowed red from the shops and the spells.”

Tad stared at her with wide baby eyes, a serious expression on his face. He couldn’t have understood much of what she was saying, but he looked as if he was taking it all in.

“All that’s gone now, with the Brotherhood in power, and the new laws,” Calliope said sadly. And after that she fell silent. She held Tad, buried her nose in his soft curls, and stared at the flames, until the little boy was asleep.

********

At last the days started to lengthen towards spring. The rains came and melted the deep snow around the cottage making the woods muddy and wet. Everything was brown. It was the hungry time, and Calliope’s food stores were low. Tad seemed even more pale and sickly, and she started to wonder if he was going to survive. At night, his cough seemed worse than ever, echoing through the small cottage.

In the wet days she bundled him in his wool jacket and leggings, and the old wolfskin that he had been wrapped in as an infant. She traipsed through the woods with Tad on her back, looking for food. It was too early for the first greens of spring, but she found a few mushrooms, the hard woody turkey tails, that grew like shelves along dead birch trees. She stewed these in the birch sap that she collected from the trees in her yard, and it made a kind of stew that wasn’t too bad. She coaxed frogs from the mud by the pond, and she and Tad ate the legs, roasted over the fire. They would be better with a little salt, but her meagre supply was long gone.

One April evening she returned to her cottage after a hard day of foraging. Tad was heavy on her back, and restless. She had a sack with some puffballs she had found. She was counting on these as a real treat, their flesh soft, white and savory. Again she wished for salt, but they would be all right anyway.

As she approached the cottage she lifted her nose to the smell of smoke. She never left a fire burning, she hadn’t the wood. Yet there was a light on in the small cottage, a curl of smoke rising from the chimney. A white blur outside the door turned out to be a goat, tethered to the doorframe, chewing on a mouthful of dried grass. The door opened, casting a pool of warm light on the wet ground and Tobias was standing in the doorway, his eyes dark and pleading, his hands open in supplication.

She ran to him and flung her arms around him, Tad wide eyed and silent, bouncing on her back. Tobias’ arms were strong about her. His skin smelled of salt and tar. His kisses fell on her lips with unbearable sweetness. Tad let out a howl of fear, at these strange goings on. Calliope got him down off her back and cuddled him and tried to make him understand that Tobias was a friend. But Tad wasn’t used to friends. They had no friends. He went and hid behind the wood box, peeking out tentatively, his blue eyes dark with apprehension.

Tobias had signed on to a whaler and been at sea for almost a year, which was why he had not returned in the fall. He had spent a terrible winter on the northern seas. He had hoped for riches, enough to set her up in a life without want, but it had been a bad berth, and he had little to show for it. He told Calliope he’d not do that again.

What he did bring with him seemed like riches to Calliope, in her half starved state. Seal blubber, dried fish and figs, oranges, from sunny distant shores, wrapped in crinkly paper to preserve their freshness, small packets of oats and beans and salt. The goat was due to freshen any day, and soon there would be milk to drink. He had a hare he’d shot, earlier that day, and they stewed it with the puffballs and had a feast. Calliope thickened the gravy with the oats and seasoned it generously with the salt. Tad was coaxed from his hiding place by the tantalizing smell of the food. When he had his first taste of an orange he laughed out loud and it was as if the sun had burst forth in the small dark cottage.

Tad sat on Calliope’s knee while Tobias got out a small tin guitar, which he lovingly tuned. He sang songs of the sea and the woods and the mountains, songs of love and loss and yearning. Tad watched, his small face intent with fascination, until he grew sleepy. His head rested against Calliope’s shoulder and he was asleep. His slender limbs were heavy, his belly full. She tucked him up in his small bed in the corner, then put some more wood on the fire and sat beside Tobias. She yearned to take him to bed, but she knew there were some things they needed to sort through first.

“I’m sorry,” said Tobias, into the flames.

She wanted to make everything easy between them, to tell him all was well, but was it? The winter had been hard and hungry, the nights long and filled with loneliness. She reminded herself stoically that she had made her own choices. Tobias had not wanted her to return here, nor had he wanted a werewolf son. The fire crackled and the silence deepened between them.

“The resistance to the Brotherhood is growing stronger,” he said, still staring at the fire. “In the city people are meeting in cells. Weapons are being gathered, supplies laid by. The Ice King supports our cause. I spoke with him when I was in the Northern Sea. He is willing to shelter our refugees, and supply us with weapons.”

Calliope's heart stirred. She was not a vengeful person, but it was her deepest wish to see her tormentors overthrown, and justice returned to her land.

“That was why you went there,” she said quietly.

“In part, yes,” he said.

“The Brotherhood is a formidable foe,” Calliope said. A branch in the fire popped and exploded in a small shower of sparks. “They will stop at nothing to achieve their ends.”

“I know,” said Tobias. He took her hand and held it in his large warm one, and they both remembered their innocent baby who had been killed so heartlessly. “But life in the cities is becoming unbearable. Food is scarce, and the cost of necessities keeps going up. All basic magics are forbidden. Everything must be done by Ackademy Mages, and their prices are steep. Ordinary people can’t afford a simple charm or healing spell. The Brotherhood soldiers are everywhere, always on the lookout for illegal magics. They plunder and bully the people and no one dares to stop them. The jails are full to bursting - they are building a new prison just outside the walls of Isinglass. It’s huge Calliope, made of black granite and steel. People are afraid to say a word against the Brotherhood, for fear they may end up there. The uneasiness on the streets is palpable - you can feel it as you walk about.”

“Here too,” said Calliope. “The priest and his deacons are always watching. People are scared to talk to me in the street, for fear that one of them may be listening.”

“The church is controlled by the Brotherhood now,” said Tobias. “In Isinglass there are broadsheets posted in the market squares. All magic is to be performed only through church approved sources - priests, deacons, Ackademy trained mages.”

“They are taking away our power,” Calliope said darkly, staring into the flames. “But the people will never give up their magic. Not in these parts.”

“The Brotherhood is afraid to make a move here,” Tobias agreed. “They know they would be met with fierce opposition. But in Isinglass, ordinary people are afraid to perform even the simplest of spells.”

Calliope shut her eyes and tried to imagine it. Isinglass was the city of her youth. She had left these clay hills and gone to study at the Isinglass Akademy of Magicks when she had been a young girl. The great, glittering city had fairly burst with magic in those days, sparkled with it. There had been young magicians demonstrating their powers on every corner, small stands selling amulets and wishing stones on every block. But now all that was forbidden by the Brotherhood.

“The Resistance is growing stronger,” said Tobias. “People hate the Brotherhood, though they dare not say it. They will rise up, when the time comes, I am sure of it.”

“What of the king?” asked Calliope. “He always stood against the Brotherhood before.”

“The king is…….distracted. He is afraid of the people, worried that they will rise against him. There are those that whisper in his ear, and he listens to them, they make him…..anxious. And the queen has lost another baby. They say he is heartbroken over her inability to produce an heir. They say he has turned away from her, that he no longer loves her. He wishes to put her aside, to send her to a convent and seek another wife.”

“Can he do that?” asked Calliope.

“He is the king.” said Tobias dryly. “I believe he can do whatever he wants. And there are those in the Brotherhood who whisper in his ear, inflaming his anxieties and his discontent.”

“This is not the world we fought for, Tobias.”

“No, Calliope, it is not. But, sadly, we lost that war.”

They sat and stared at the flames, still holding hands, for a long time. At last Calliope rose, and returned with two small tumblers of her own currant wine. She handed one to Tobias. He raised his glass, filled with the dark red liquid, and drank. Calliope settled in the chair beside him. She drank her own wine in silence.

“We nearly starved to death this winter, Tad and I,” she said at last. “Tad is ill. I’m not sure he will recover.”

“You thought I had abandoned you.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes.”

“I……I needed to think, Calliope. Can you understand that?”

“Yes, I can,” she said. “But it was terribly hard. I don’t want to feel that way again.”

Calliope looked over at Tobias. He was beautiful, in the firelight, his nut brown skin, the laugh lines around his eyes, his dark wiry hair peppered with grey. His body was lean and muscular from a life of hard work. He was not the only love of her life. Her past had been marked by an earlier, darker passion, one that had ended in disaster. But he was the last love she would ever have, of that, she was certain.

At last she spoke up. “I will be all right here, Tobias, if you never come back. I will be sad, heartbroken, in fact, but I will recover. I have Tad, and a living here among my people. I have my cause. And I will fight for it until I die. I will raise my child and I will survive.”

“But I came back,” he said. “I am here.”

“I need to know,” she said. “I need to know now. When you leave in two weeks, will you come back in the fall? Because my heart is fragile, Tobias. It is fragile as glass. I cannot allow you to break it over and over. I am not that strong.”

“I did not want the child,” he said. “He frightened me, with his curse. In my country, the were-men do not live among us. They are hated and feared above all others.” Calliope turned her head away from him, and he saw a tear upon her cheek.

“But hear me out,” he said. “I know you love the child. I know he brings you joy and comfort, and has helped you mend your broken heart. And I love you, Calliope. You are my heart. You are the soul of my soul and I want only happiness for you. You deserve it, magic knows. And so, I will love the child you love as well.”

“You will?” she asked, looking up at him. Her eyes were bright.

“I will, Calliope. I have already decided. For you, I will love the boy. And I promise to return here to you, every fall and spring, as long as I am able.”

And then Calliope was in his arms, and they did not talk any more that night.


	4. Birdie

And so Tad grew up in the little village, under Calliope’s loving eye. Tobias did return that fall, and every spring and fall thereafter. He brought seal meat, dried figs and dates from the sunny shores of distant lands. He brought oranges, and, on one memorable occasion, coins made of sweet crumbling chocolate, the most wonderful thing that Tad had ever tasted. When Tobias was there the little cottage boomed with his loud voice and laughter. He played his tin guitar. He went about and did the chores for Calliope, dug the garden, brought in loads of wood from the distant hills. His sang sea shanties or songs of the sunny island where he was born. His dark face broke into a smile frequently, his brown eyes crinkled. Tad followed him about as soon as he was old enough to toddle around after him, and Calliope’s face was alight with a happiness that she lacked the rest of the year. But always, after a few weeks he returned to his ship and the sea. And the rest of the weeks of the year were not that bad. They were peaceful, Calliope and Tad, in their little cottage.

After that first winter together, when they almost starved, they managed quite well. They had the goat for milk, and a flock of chickens. The kitchen garden started to prosper. Tad grew strong and healthy, and if it was a lonely life for a boy, he never complained. His best friends were the goat and her babies - he frolicked with them as if they were siblings. She was a patient white nanny with long curving horns and they called her Curly. After a few years, there was a small flock of her children. It was Tad’s job to feed them, and take them to fresh pasture in the surrounding hills.

Calliope watched Tad anxiously for signs of magic and for the first few years, she saw none. Magic did not come to everyone in their land, and she had no idea who his parents were, or what their powers might have been. Then one spring, when Tad was five, Tobias brought home a beautiful scrap of red silk and with the boy’s help, he made a kite. It was Tad’s favorite possession. He laughed and clapped his hands as the red kite was caught by the wind and danced up to the clouds on its string. His blue eyes were alight with wonder, his soft brown curls bobbing in the spring breeze.

A few days later, Tad was playing out in the goat pasture. Tobias had already left them and Calliope and Tad were enveloped in the sadness they always felt in the wake of his leaving. It was a clear, still day, and Tad had the red kite with him, though there was no wind. Calliope looked up from her washing and saw the kite flying gently, just above Tad’s head, in a breeze of his own making. He was laughing joyously.

So it was that Tad was an air mage. As he grew older his power started to manifest in various ways in their lives. He could set a steady breeze to dry the clothes, or fan a fire that was reluctant to start. He would set whirlwinds of flower petals or dust to entertain himself, and on occasion, Calliope would enter the small cottage to find a bored child, watching duelling dust devils on the hearth, his expression masked. He could call down the birds, who became his special friends. They’d land on his outstretched finger, titter and chat at him, dig in his shirt pocket for the bread crumbs he kept there for them.

And he made kites. Gorgeous, well balanced air machines out of bits of rags and paper that would sail into the air on the smallest puff of a breeze. Fanciful creations in shapes of ships and birds and animals. His most prized possessions were a pair of rusty scissors and a small pot of cherry gum for gluing the pieces together. He made twine from goldenrod stems in the fall, soaking them, pounding them soft, braiding the fibers. He hoarded string. Tobias brought him scraps of fabric and beads from his travels and these were incorporated into his kites.

After a time, his skill brought him a small measure of acceptance among the village children, who saw him flying these magical kites and were naturally drawn to them. He was barred from the village school, and all the children had been warned to stay away from him, but the allure of the kites proved irresistible. It gave him something to bargain with. A child would trade a turn holding onto one of Tad’s kites for a boiled sweet or some spruce gum. He traded a kite in the shape of a ship for a large beautiful marble, with many swirling colors that shifted and changed when you stared at it. He traded another, in the shape of an owl, for a small cheap knife, such as boys like to have. He traded his kites for a chance to be with the other children, a chance to join in with their games of marbles, or seek and go find, or complex games of tag in which he was never quite sure of the rules.

In spite of his success as a kite maker he always felt outside the circle of the village children. In the long winter days Calliope taught him his numbers and letters and set him sums of increasing complexity. She had a small stash of books, hidden behind a hollow panel above her bed, and with these she patiently taught Tad to read. There was one book in there, an old Grimoire, that was forbidden to him. It was a book of magic and spells and power. Calliope kept it locked with a key she wore around her neck, always. He did not remember being told not to touch it, he had always known that, but he remembered the sting it had given his fingers when once, a curious five year old, he had tried to open it.

As the years marched on in the little village built on the clay mysterious visitors started appearing at the one room cottage with increasing frequency. Men and women in hooded cloaks, who arrived late at night after Tad was in bed. Usually they came alone and spoke around the kitchen table with Calliope in hushed tones, before being put to bed surreptitiously in the attic. Sometimes there were families, or groups of small children; doe eyed, scrawny, unnaturally still. Tad was allowed to play with these children quietly, in the attic while Calliope whispered with their parents in the kitchen below. After a few days they would move on, in the night, to another safe house further north. They always traveled north. That was where King Galacio, the Ice King, reigned. That was where safety lay. At night around the fire, with the windows shuttered, Calliope told stories to the wide eyed groups of refugees who sat around her hearth and drank her soup. King Galacio was a just man, who recognized the evil ways of the Brotherhood in the cities. He supported the Resistance. He was a friend to the Polar Bear King, and the dragons. The frightened refugees, fleeing the cruel persecution in the cities, would find shelter in his frozen kingdom.

Tad could never tell anyone about these poor frightened souls, that came in the night, hungry and cold, and left with full bellies and food in their packs. And though he liked playing with the children that came through, the secrets he had to keep made him feel even more isolated from the other children in the village.

*******

One sunny spring day when Tad was eight he was foraging in the woods with Calliope. He proudly carried a small light bow, a gift Tobias had bestowed upon him on his return from his most recent travels. He was hunting small hares and squirrels for their meagre spring stew pot when he looked up into the trees and saw a most unlikely thing. A pair of red silk slippers, grubby and worn, attached to two nut brown legs that dangled from a high branch. Tad looked up and a curly mass of brown hair, tinged with gold, poked over a high branch followed by a pair of grey green eyes. Tad stared into those eyes for a long moment, then they crinkled around the corners into a smile. A lithe figure grabbed onto the branch above and swung itself down, landing neatly beside Tad in those red slippers.

It was a child, similar in age to himself, and at first Tad wasn’t sure if it was a boy or a girl. The odd creature had those masses of golden brown curls, dense and wiry, and none too clean. The curls had a greasy sheen, and little bits of leaves and branches had caught in the tangle. He or she wore a bright green cap, a sky blue tunic, brown leggings and ropes _and_ ropes of cheap glass beads that sparkled and twinkled in the spring sunshine. The child was smiling at Tad with its whole face, the green eyes shining, the teeth slightly crooked. The dirty red slippers still had some sparkle in them, and the whole effect reminded Tad of a harlequin clown he had seen come through the village last summer with a small traveling circus.

“Birdie McBird, at your service,” the child said, sweeping the green hat off its head and making a low bow.

Tad was stunned. He stared at the bright colorful creature with the name of a bird (two birds) and could not say a word.

“Cat got your tongue?” grinned the strange child.

“Who are you?” Tad managed, croakily.

“Just said. I _know_ who you are. The witch’s brat. Devil’s spawn, _you_ are.”

“Are you a boy or a girl?” Tad blurted out. If the other child could be rude so could he.

“What are you? Stupid?” the small person said indignantly. “I’m a boy, of course.” As he said it, it all fell into place, the lines of his face, the way he held himself and Tad suddenly wondered how he had been so confused.

“Want me to prove it?” asked the strange boy saucily.

“No, that’s all right,” said Tad quickly. He had no doubt the other boy would strip to prove a point. “Why’re you dressed like that, then?”

“I dress how I like,” said the other boy, simply, easily. “Who’s to stop me? Do you have any marbles?”

So it was that when Calliope came up from the glade where she had been digging wild leeks in the spring sunshine she found Tad and Birdie with a circle scratched out in the dirt of the forest floor, intensely focussed on their game.

“Who’s this then? “ Calliope asked.

Birdie stood up in his garish outfit. He cocked his head and looked her straight in the eye “I’m Birdie McBird,” he announced, loudly, as if daring the trees to contradict him.

Calliope looked him up and down critically. “Pleased to meet you, Birdie McBird,” she said. “You can come to supper if you like.”

And so Birdie ambled with them through the woods, back to their little cottage. There he helped to wash and chop the leeks, and ate the soup that Calliope prepared from them with the last of the potatoes from the cellar and Curly’s sweet milk.

********

For reasons that it took Tad many years to understand, Birdie was also barred from the village school, though he did not carry a bite mark on his leg, as Tad did. Birdie had a mum and a little sister named Cricket. They had a house on the other side of the village down by the river, near the potter’s sheds and the evil smelling tannery, where the barges poled up and down the waterway, taking away the bales of wool and leather, the boxes of clay pots packed in fleece, and brought goods and news from the outside world.

Cricket was little, too little to be let out alone to play, but Birdie’s mum didn’t pay much mind to what he did, as long as he was home by dark, and it took no time at all for him to become a daily fixture in Tad’s life. Looking back on his childhood, Tad could clearly separate it into the days before Birdie arrived and the days after.

Life with Birdie as a companion and co-conspirator was immensely more interesting and satisfying than life without. Birdie could run faster and climb higher than any boy in the village. He was nimble and quick and in spite of his outlandish attire and obvious poverty he quickly established himself as a leader of sorts among the village children. Where Tad had always stood by shyly, on the outskirts of the boisterous crowd, Birdie jumped right in, as if he expected to be included. He was the best at marbles, the fastest at tag, the first to the top of the tallest pine tree in the village square. Yet he scorned the other children as softies and namby-pambies. The real fun, he implied to Tad, was to be had when the two of them were off in the woods together, hunting rabbits, spying on birds in their nests, scrambling naked over slippery rocks to explore a cave behind the waterfall hidden deep in the forest, gathering berries among the brambles until their fingers were stained red with an intoxicating mixture of berry juice and blood.

He was often at the cottage when they ate, and Calliope, ascertaining correctly that regular meals were not commonly had in his household, fed him generously and unquestioningly along with Tad. In the winter months she tried to teach him his letters and numbers as she taught Tad, but Birdie had little use for books. He was more inclined to spend the cold afternoons around the hearth strumming on the small wooden ukulele that Tobias had left for Tad after one of his visits. Birdie coaxed such sweet tunes from the simple instrument that at times Calliope could be seen pausing in the middle of her daily round of tasks and listening in wonder.

Birdie was a fire mage. Sparks flew from his fingers when he got excited or upset. His breath smelled of smoke, and sometimes, when he was running, little puffs of smoke came out of his heels as they hit the forest floor. He could bring a blue flame and hold it in his hand, to light their way home when they were out after dark. When they were cold or wet he could easily light a fire to warm them.

Tad felt jealous, a little, of Birdie’s ease with fire and wondered what good it was to be an air mage anyway. He supposed his kites were good for something. (Ever since they had become friends, Birdie watched over the trade in kites protectively, and always made sure that Tad got a fair deal.) Then, one day, something happened that made Tad glad he was an air mage after all.

It was a windy day in late autumn. Tad was out by himself, Birdie being off on some business of his own. Tad was standing up on the little bluff that rose behind their cottage and looked down to the goat pasture below. He was enjoying the feeling of the cold air, the wind buffeting his skin and blowing his brown curls about his face. A storm was blowing in over the mountains and through the woods, bringing the chill of the northern seas, where the Ice King ruled and the dragons lived in icebergs that floated in the freezing ocean. Tobias had told him how the dragons had their babies in caves that they carved out of the ice with their hot breath. There they laid their eggs and hatched them, and suckled their young until the fire came to the baby dragons’ breath and they flew away. He had told him how the narwhals frolicked and played in the icy waters and sometimes had fierce battles with their long sharp horns. He told of the great white bears, that walked over the ice on padded feet, silent and deadly hunters of the north, fiercely loyal to their Polar Bear King. Tad would like to go on Tobias’ ship with him someday and see all that.

The brisk wind smelled like snow and even though he was cold Tad felt invigorated by the wildness of it. The wind, after all, was his element. High above him, against the dark grey sky with clouds scudding fast across it, Tad saw a small black speck. The speck came nearer and nearer until Tad could see that it was a bird, battered and buffeted by the wind. He raised his hand, as he did for the songbirds that sometimes perched there and a large, sodden falcon, landed and glared at him through a narrow yellow eye.

He took the falcon home and it fluffed and dried its feathers by the fire. It ate a piece of cheese and a crust of bread. When it was done eating it flew to the door frame that led to the small bedroom that Tobias had built for Tad off the main room. It gave a loud squawk and settled itself above the door with its head tucked under its wing.

After that the falcon was Tad’s frequent companion as he roamed the woods and fields. It spent its nights on guard perched on the frame above Tad’s door. Tad named the bird Shadow. It was after Shadow arrived that Tad started to feel that being an air mage, while perhaps not as useful as being a fire mage, had its good points after all.


	5. The Wind

One autumn morning when Tad was about ten years old he and Calliope descended from their lonely hut on the mountain. Shadow flew high above them, circling and swooping in the cold wind. They were heading to the village wash house, carrying heavy bundles of dirty clothes. They usually did this task early in the morning, to avoid the crowd. They would arrive shortly after dawn, set the fire and get their washing done while the other village women were still cleaning up breakfast and sweeping their floors. But on this day they were late. Calliope had been out attending a birth the night before. It had been the first birth for a frightened young mother, and the babe had taken a long time coming. Calliope had got home near dawn, and had collapsed into bed. She had slept much later than usual, and had woken when the sun was already high in the sky.

In any event, the washing must be done and so they entered the wash house in the middle of the morning. It was exactly the moment when the village women were gathering to scrub their clothes and chatter among themselves.

There were ten stone sinks lined up on either side of a narrow trough. Cold clear water, flowing from high up in the clay hills ran into a spigot. It fell with a cheerful splash into the trough and ran between the rows of sinks. The room was thick with steam. It smelled of soap and the sharp scent of the peat fire that was set under a huge enamel boiler at the far end of the little wash house.

The relaxed chatter of the village women stopped instantly, when Calliope and Tad entered the building. Calliope set down her burden of dirty clothes in front of one of the sinks. The woman standing at the next sink over was Goody Malgreave, who had come to the cottage with a painful bunion last winter. She pointedly picked up her washing and moved to another sink at the far end of the close little room.

“Best be careful, around that witch,” she muttered to the woman at the sink beside her. Tad recognized the other woman as Goody Tippet, who had come to Calliope in the spring for a charm when her husband had been making eyes at another woman.

“Yes,” Goody Tippet murmured now in reply. “Can’t be too careful. Not these days, you can’t.”

“Go play outside, by the stream,” Calliope said to Tad in a low voice. “I can get the washing done by myself.” She started loading their clothes into the stone sink.

But Tad’s eyes had darkened and his face had got a faraway look. “I’ll get you the hot water, Gammer,” he said, flatly. He walked over to the huge enamel boiler. It loomed shining and white at the far end of the room, in a dark alcove under the eaves. The pitch fire beneath it glowed cherry red. Tad grabbed hold of the wooden bucket that hung on the wall, and turned the handle on the spigot. The hot water poured out accompanied by a puff of steam.

“Careful, witch's brat,” cackled Goody Malgreave. “Don’t burn yourself.”

“Think he might be fireproof, that one,” commented Goody Tippet. There were a few giggles, a few murmurs of agreement from the surrounding group of women.

Tad closed his eyes, sucked in his breath, and suddenly, without warning, a great wind battered the small clay building. They heard the ceramic chimney cap, rattling crazily and then the wind came roaring down the chimney, extinguishing the fire under the boiler and spraying the housewives of the village and all their laundry with a thick layer of black soot.

Tad looked around in horror at what he had done. All the women in the wash house stared back at him speechlessly. He sought Calliope’s face, but she looked as surprised and fearful as the rest. After a moment she held up her arms, inviting him to come to their shelter, but Tad could only see the stricken look on her face.

He dropped his wooden bucket with a dull thud. The hot water spilled, making a dark stain on the hard packed clay floor, and he fled.

********

Calliope found him down by the river, shivering and crying, hugging his knees to himself. It was a cold November day. A chilly wind was starting to spit drops of rain. A few brown leaves clung to the beech tree that grew out over the river, and danced in the breeze. Shadow was perched on a high branch croaking anxiously.

Tad looked so small and sad, sitting in the cold mud of the riverbank, that it wrenched Calliope’s heart. She set down her heavy burden of wet clothes and gathered him in her arms. He was ice cold, and he buried his face in her warm neck.

He cried for a long time and she held him and stroked his back. At last he looked up at her, his blue eyes shining with tears.

“Why do they hate us so?”

“They don’t hate us,” Calliope said. “They are afraid. We are different, and..….in these times…….The arm of the Brotherhood is long, Tad. People want to make sure it’s known that they scorn the village witch. And her son. I.…..I’m sorry Tad. It's not fair to you. It's not the life I would choose for you. But it's the only life I have to offer.”

“I hate the Brotherhood,” Tad said with feeling.

“As do I,” Calliope replied. “But best not say that where anyone can hear you.” She found her handkerchief and wiped Tad’s wet face. “Blow,” she instructed, holding the cloth to his runny nose. She stood him on his feet and held him close to her one more time, his thin body warm and alive against her own. She stood up herself, and kissed the top of his head.

“You’re not angry?” he asked as they started on their way up the steep clay road to their cottage.

“No,” she said, smiling at him. “I’m not angry. I love you. They humiliated you. I understand, I really do. But next time…….. Well, it would be better if you found some other way to let out your feelings than calling a wind.”

“Like what?”

“Yell, hit the wall, throw something. Lay on the floor and pound your fists. The village people understand those things. But calling the wind is bound to make them nervous.’’

“Can’t they do it?”

“A few of them, probably. But they don’t do it lightly. And these days, folk magick like that is frowned on by the Brotherhood. They are doing everything they can to discourage it. Besides, it’s tiring, is it not?”

Calliope was right. Tad felt light and heavy at the same time, as if he had been wrung out. His feet felt leaden, every step up the steep hill a huge effort. His head felt so light he worried it might fly off into the clouds. When he turned it the whole world tilted uncomfortably and he thought for a moment, he might be sick. He watched the white clouds scudding across the dark grey sky.

“I don’t even know how I did it,” he confessed to Calliope, still looking at the sky. “I just got mad, really mad, and then…..and then the wind was there, wanting to come inside and stir everything up.

“Listen to the wind, Tad, always,” said Calliope. “It is your power, your element, as the earth is mine. But use that power wisely, sparingly. Use it only when you need it, and it will serve you well. You are part of the wind, and the wind is part of you. With time and attention you will learn to master it.”

When they got home, Calliope made Tad drink a cup of bloodroot tea, and after he had swallowed down the bitter brew, he went straight to bed and slept through until the next morning.

*******

In the winter, when the river froze just right, the village children put on skates and glided over the glistening blue ice. The better off among them had skates made of metal, that strapped onto their boots with sturdy leather thongs and carried them over the ice as if they were flying. Birdie and Tad had skates they had carved out of wood, that they fastened to their feet with rags. They were a poor imitation, and hard as they worked to sharpen them, the wooden blades would not hold a proper edge. The two boys were left far behind in the races and games of tag that the other children played in the clear wintery air.

Their little village had only three shops. That winter, there was a set of silver skates, in pride of place, in the window of the nicest one. How Tad and Birdie longed for those skates. Never had either of them seen anything that shone so appealingly. The blades were sharpened to a fine edge. The skates were displayed, blade up with the beveled edge reflecting the light from the shop window so brightly that it glittered. The leather straps were soft and supple with a complicated system of buckles sure to fascinate and delight any boy. “ _Those_ skates wouldn’t come off,” Birdie and Tad told each other, gazing with longing into the shop window. “ _Those_ skates would hold an edge.”

It didn’t matter. There was no money in either of their homes for such extravagant luxuries.

They could earn the money, Birdie told Tad. Indeed, they managed to earn a copper penny mucking out Mudshark the ferryman’s horse stall, and another copper penny working the heavy leather bellows for the blacksmith when his regular boy was sick. But it wasn’t nearly enough. Birdie came up with a variety of schemes for burglary and other petty crimes, but practical Tad managed to point out a fatal flaw in all of them. Then, the day after Candlemas, Berel the baker’s boy came down to the river after school with those beautiful shining skates slung over his shoulder.

It was a hard thing to bear. Tad and Birdie gathered in a circle with the other village children while Berel pointed out the many wonderful features of those skates, the lightweight metal, the sharp, gleaming edges, the clever design of the straps. Berel was a big boy, tall and husky, well fed from his easy life in the bakery. Birdie still beat him in every race, though, every contest that they could dream up for strength and agility.

They took to the ice and Berel flew to the head of the pack. There was no beating him in those wonderful skates, and Tad watched the slow burn of Birdie’s anger growing as Berel won race after race. He was afraid it would end in a fight - Berel and Birdie often scuffled with each other. But then, without warning, Birdie gestured with his head for Tad to follow him. He skated to the edge of the river and tore his homemade skates off his feet. He flung them over his shoulder with a clatter of wood and headed up the path to his house. Tad ran behind, breathless and panting, in an effort to keep up.

It wasn’t far. Birdie lived on the River Road. It was the dirtier part of town, where the fishery was located, and the tannery with its unpleasant smells. It was here that the wool trader’s barges pulled up and the merchants disembarked, looking for a place to drink, and gamble. Looking for whores. And the River Road provided. A string of rickety wooden buildings lined the dank cobblestone street, containing ale houses, gambling parlors and brothels. It was in one of these that Birdie lived.

Birdie’s house was very different from Calliope’s tidy cottage. It was a proper house, tall and narrow, with three stories, but it was old, with peeling paint and had the appearance of leaning to one side. Overgrown weeds grew among the discarded furniture and other rubbish that was scattered about the yard. Tad liked to play in the dusty attic, filled with shadows and cast off treasures, and in the basement which was cool in the summer and smelled of the river, but they didn’t come here much. There was an aura of neglect that hung about the place. Birdie’s mum was a strange woman, raven haired, tall and gaunt, with dark hollow eyes. She dressed in ruffled, brightly colored silks, that contrasted strangely with her sad demeanor. She ran card games and told fortunes from the parlor at the back of the house.

Birdie burst into the front door. From the parlor, half obscured by a grimy curtain, rose the murmur of men’s voices. Tad could hear the slap of cards hitting the table, the clinking of glasses, an occasional good natured guffaw. The card games that Birdie’s mother ran in her back parlor often grew wild and boisterous, but it was still early, and things were calm.

Cricket sat before the hearth playing with a set of small dolls made from old spools and felt. If the card game going on in the next room bothered her she did not show it. The fire smoldered greasily. Cricket herself was none too clean. Her dress and apron were dirty and she had a smudge of soot on her nose. Her tight curls, just like Birdie’s but a shade darker, puffed about her head like a cloud.

“Fix them!” Birdie commanded, flinging the skates down in front of Cricket with a clatter.

Cricket looked at her brother with narrowed eyes. “What'll you give me?” she asked.

“Penny,” said Birdie.

“Two pennies,” Cricket countered. “I know you’ve been working in the village.”

“The other penny’s Tad’s, stupe!” Birdie said hotly. “He earned it along with me. Half the money’s his.”

“Stupe yourself,” said Cricket. She stood up and folded her arms and glared at them. She was just a little kid. No more than six, probably, Tad thought. But standing there in her dirty pinafore, arms crossed against her chest, staring down her brother, she looked to Tad like some one who could hold her own. And against Birdie, no less.

“Please, Crick,” Birdie wheedled. “I’ll teach you how to skate.”

“Two pennies,” Cricket said again.

“Do both pairs for two pennies,” said Birdie. “That’s fair.” Tad didn’t know what they were negotiating for. What could little Cricket do to fix their skates? He wasn’t very happy about Birdie giving away his hard earned penny on what seemed like pure foolishness.

"Maybe," said Cricket. "If I get to go skating." She glared at Birdie imperiously.

"All right," said Birdie, though he didn't look very happy about this part of the bargain. "Fine. Just fix them."

Cricket nodded her head once. "Hand them over," she said.

Birdie handed Cricket his wooden skates. She shook her head.

“The money, stupe,” said Cricket. Her green eyes flashed.

Birdie fished into a pocket and pulled out their two coppers, tied up in a rag.

“Birdie,” Tad protested. “It’s all our money.” The beautiful metal skates were gone, but there were still plenty of good uses for those two hard earned pennies.

“Shush,” Birdie hissed, making a quieting gesture with his hand. “I know what I’m doing. We’re gonna beat that ass Berel yet.”

Cricket untied the rag and inspected the coppers carefully, then slipped them into the pocket of her grubby apron. She held out her hand for Birdie’s skates.

Birdie gave them over. She held a skate in each of her small hands. She closed her eyes, and a look of great concentration came over her face. After a minute she opened them and, grinning, handed the skates back to Birdie.

“The ties, too,” he said, hoarsely, indicating where strips of rags were laced through the tops of the skates to tie them to his boots. “Fix the ties, too.”

“I already did,” Cricket said loftily. She held out her hand for Tad’s skates. He handed them over reluctantly. She repeated the process, holding a skate in each hand and closing her eyes. That intense look came over her small face. After a few moments she gave the skates back to Tad.

“Ow!” he exclaimed, and stuck his thumb in his mouth. The edge of the wooden skate, unexpectedly sharp, had sliced his finger.

Cricket laughed.

Tad wasn’t quite sure what had happened that day, but from then on Tad and Birdie’s skates could be sharpened to a knife like edge that carried them over the frozen river like wings. And the rags, though they looked no different, strapped tightly to their boots and never came loose or fell off as they had before. And Berel, though he still sometimes won the races with his shiny silver skates, was more often than not bested by Birdie or Tad in their humble wooden ones.

********

It was a chilly night in late winter and the full moon was shining over the white snow. Tad felt it, as he always did, pulling at his joints. It made at the hairs on his head stand up. It made his skin prickle and itch. He felt it tugging at his chest - at the very core of his being. He had grown to hate the nights when the moon was full, to fear them. There was a wildness in him on those nights, a restlessness, that he did not understand and couldn’t control.

He could not settle down to anything. Calliope was by the fire, knitting, her needles clicking quietly. The lamp made a warm pool of light around her. The fire crackled cheerfully in the stone hearth. Tad walked restlessly about the cottage, from the window where the moon shone on the snow so enticingly, to the warm fireside where he distractedly picked up the guitar and strummed a few chords, then back to the window again. He stood and stared at the moon for a long time, his thoughts a restless tumble, until he could stand it no more.

“Gammer,” he said. “I want to go skating.”

“Skating?”

“The moon is so bright. I’m sure the others from the village will be out tonight. Birdie too, probably. Please Gammer?” he wheedled.

Calliope looked Tad over for a long moment. She turned her head this way and that, studying him from different angles, sizing him up. At last she nodded once, and turned back to her knitting.

“Dress warmly,” she said. “And watch out for soft spots,” she added. “It’s nearly spring, and the sun was shining on the river today. The ice may be getting thin.”

“I will, Gammer,” Tad promised. He pulled on his sweater and his jacket, wound a muffler around his neck, and jammed his cap on his head. He grabbed his wooden skates from the hook where they hung by the door and went running outside, into the glorious moonlight and the frosty air. The moon lit the snowy path in front of him and he fairly flew down the mountain, through the village and then on to the river, where the ice sparkled in the moonlight.

It was like a party. Most of the village children were there, and there were even some adults, skating in pairs in the bright moonlight. The teacher from the school was skating arm in arm with the blacksmith's son. Berel’s older brother was skating beside a pretty young woman who had come from up the river to work in her uncle's shop. Torches had been stuck in the snow on the riverbank to light the scene and a bonfire flickered and roared.

Birdie and Cricket were already there, chasing about on the ice with the other children. Tad eagerly strapped on his skates and joined in. They skated on and on in the glittering moonlight, further and further from the lights of the village and the bonfire. The river was a ribbon of smooth silver, the moon making it glow bright as bright. They raced and laughed in the wintry air, daring each other to go faster, farther. Birdie was at the head of the pack, with Tad following close behind him. Tad felt as if he had been released. He felt happy and wild, flying over the ice with the moonlight dancing on his skin, freed from the stuffy confines of the cottage.

Then, behind him, he heard a sickening crack, followed by a frightened shout, and splashing. He stopped and turned and saw an ugly jagged hole in the ice behind him. Someone had gone in.

It was little Rosie Pulsifer, one of the younger girls. She must have skated off to the side, where the ice was thinner. Now, Tad saw her come up for air and grab at the ice at the edge of the hole. He watched in horror as a piece broke off in her hands and she went down again.

“C’mon,” shouted Birdie. “Human chain!” He flung himself on the ice and started sliding, belly down, toward the gaping hole. Tad grabbed his ankles and started sliding over the ice behind him. He felt someone grab onto his own ankles as he inched forward. As they got closer to the hole the ice started cracking around them, making loud pinging sounds that echoed in the still night and made Tad’s heart stand still. Would they all go through the ice along with Rosie? The cracks ran like veins along the surface of the ice, but it held together. Tad took a deep breath and kept siding forward, clinging onto Birdie’s ankles, praying that whoever had grabbed hold behind him didn’t let go.

Ahead of him Birdie slowed down, then stopped. Tad heard wet splashing sounds, felt Birdie’s body strain as he pulled Rosie from the freezing water.

Then Tad heard a splash. He felt the tension loosen in Birdie’s muscles as he lost his grip on Rosie and she fell back into the icy water. “Damn!” Birdie cursed. Tad felt the muscles in Birdie’s calves tense as he grabbed hold of Rosie again. He could hear Birdie's breathing, ragged and fast as he struggled to pull her out.

Then Tad heard a sound that shot cold fear right to the core of him - the sharp crack of the ice breaking apart, echoing and pinging in the icy air. He felt Birdie’s weight sag as the ice gave way beneath him. He gripped as tight as he could onto Birdie’s ankles and he felt the cold water, rising up through the cracks in the ice and seeping through his clothes.

“Crick!” Birdie cried. “Cricket! Do something! Do something now!”

There was a low rumble, as if the earth itself was shifting. There was a flash of light, and Tad felt suddenly warm. The air sparkled with power, just for a moment and Tad smelled an acrid smoky smell, like sulphur. Then he felt Birdie’s weight shift. He heard more splashing and felt Birdie’s muscles strain as he pulled Rosie from the freezing water. “I’ve got her!” Birdie shouted. “Pull back! Pull back!” The human chain retreated, on their bellies, inch by inch over the cracked, treacherous ice, away from the gaping hole.

They got onto solid ground and laid Rosie on the ice, but something was wrong. She was very pale and still, not gasping and coughing as she should be. The children stood around in a circle and stared at her inert figure in the moonlight.

“She’s drowned,” said Cricket solemnly. She looked very small, standing there, and Birdie went and put a protective arm around her.

Tad felt a sodden leaden feeling in his own lungs. How awful it must be, he thought, to be below the ice, water filling your lungs where the air was supposed to be. The air was the force that filled him with power, so much power sometimes that it frightened him. He had so much air in his lungs, more than he needed. He knew, suddenly, that he could give some of that air to Rosie. Tad pushed the other children away and knelt on the ground beside Rosie. He placed his mouth over hers. He called the wind from within him and blew it, gently, ever so gently, into Rosie’s lungs, moving the water aside, pushing it away. He filled her with the beautiful, life giving air that moved so powerfully inside him. He breathed into her, again and again, pausing between breaths to let her exhale. Water gurgled out of her mouth. He wiped it away impatiently with his muffler and breathed more air into her. More water gurgled out. Then, with an enormous gasp she started coughing. She sat bolt upright, retching violently, taking huge, painful breaths of the frosty night air. The color came back to her cheeks and her eyes flew open. At last her breathing quieted and she looked around the circle of worried faces about her.

“I’m cold,” she said, in a small voice. She started to shiver.

Birdie and Tad were heroes that night. The part that Cricket had played, although vital, did not seem to have been noticed by anyone except the two boys. The children all bundled Rosie up and carried her home where her mother put her to bed with a heated brick at her feet and and had her drink tea with elderberry wine mixed in. And for a few days the village women looked on Birdie and Tad kindly, the baker had an extra cookie for them, the shopkeepers an extra sweet. Then everyone seemed to forget all about it.

But Tad didn’t forget. He remembered the feeling of the wind calling from inside him, wanting to fill Rosie’s lungs with life giving air. He remembered when she took her first gasping breath, the joy and relief he felt when he realized that she wasn’t going to die. He remembered that feeling, for a long time, after everyone else around him seemed to have forgotten all about it.

Birdie was matter of fact about the role that Cricket had played. “That’s just Crick,” he said, when Tad asked him about it in the privacy of their favorite oak tree. “Sometimes she can do things other people can’t. That’s all.” But Tad remembered the way that Cricket had saved all their lives, just as they were about to go through the ice, and he wondered.


	6. Julian

Tobias had built a small room for Tad off the main cottage. It was barely big enough to hold the pallet that he and Calliope stuffed with fresh rushes every fall, but it was tightly built and well chinked. Wrapped in the warm quilts and blankets that Calliope had made from a patchwork of old clothing he had a warm and cozy nest. The room had a shelf for his few possessions, some hooks to hang his clothes, and a window with a wooden shutter to let in the air when it was warm.

One rainy spring night when Tad was about thirteen he lay in bed, thinking sleepily about the day’s events - the rabbit he’d managed to snare for their supper, the taste of the warm stew, seasoned with juniper berries and salt that he’d helped prepare. He smiled to himself as he thought of Curly’s new spotted twins and the feel of their warm tongues, licking his hand. It tickled, and twisted his insides in wild joyful wriggle. He thought of bending birches in the woods with Birdie, the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the fragile green of newly leafed trees, climbing to the top where the trunk got whippy and thin, until it could no longer hold his weight. The feeling of flying free, as he leapt to the ground, the elastic spring of the tree trunk catapulting him into the air. He’d broken his collarbone last summer, doing that. He had a lump there that Calliope said would never go away, but it hadn’t stopped him from bending birches.

Calliope was boiling down sap into the smoky syrup they made every spring and he smelled the sweet smell, rising from a kettle on the open fire and filling the cottage. He heard the rain pattering softly on the roof, the hiss and lick of the flames, the click of Calliope’s needles as she knitted in the low light, humming softly to herself.

Tad was drifting off, lulled by the soothing sounds, when suddenly there was a tapping at his window. He lifted the latch cautiously and there was Birdie, wet and shivering and biting back tears.

“What’re you doing here?” Tad whispered.

“Let me in!” Birdie hissed. Tad moved aside and Birdie clambered in through the window and dripped on the bed.

“What happened?” asked Tad.

“Had to get away,” Birdie whispered back. “Lemme stay here tonight, all right?”

“You’re soaked.”

“Yeah.”

They were quiet, but in that tiny house there was no keeping Birdie’s arrival from Calliope.

“Tad?” she called. “Who’s there?” They heard her get up and the door to Tad’s room opened with a creak. “Hello Birdie,” Calliope said. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing,” said Birdie, staring at the floor.

Calliope studied him. “All right, Mister Nothing Happened,” she said at last. “Let’s get you dried off by the fire.”

“I’m all right, “ said Birdie. He was still shivering, uncontrollably.

“I’m sure you are,” said Calliope. “But you could still use some dry clothes and a cup of tea, I expect.”

She made Birdie strip out of his wet clothes and sit by the fire wrapped in a blanket. She bustled about in a comforting way. She found an old nightshirt for Birdie to change into, made tea from the hot sap boiling on the hearth. It was sweet and smoky and soothing, redolent with lavender and chamomile. She served it up for the three of them in earthenware cups and sat in her chair again with a sigh.

“We’re going for wild leeks tomorrow, Birdie, if the rain stops,” she remarked. “You can come with us if you like.”

“All right,” said Birdie, sipping his tea.

“Wild leeks means Tobias is coming soon,” said Tad.

“Yes, agreed Calliope. “He should be here any day.”

“Do you think he’ll bring me some fabric for my kites?” asked Tad, eagerly.

“Most likely,” she replied.

“I need reds and oranges,“ Tad said. “I’m making a phoenix, you know, and I need bright colors for the tail.”

“We’ll see when he gets here,” said Calliope, quietly. “Best get to bed, you two, if you’re done with your tea.” She rose again, and collected the cups, and shooed them off to bed. They crawled in together. Birdie shivered and shuddered against Tad even though he was no longer cold and the two boys twined together on the narrow pallet and fell asleep.

 

********

It wasn’t until the next day, in the privacy of the branches of the large old oak tree deep in the forest, that Birdie told Tad what had spooked him so. The other children were safely sequestered in the red brick schoolhouse, droning through their lessons, and Tad and Birdie felt that they were safe in their own leafy world. But the story that Birdie told, Tad didn’t quite understand.

“She had a fellow there last night,” Birdie explained gruffly. “And he wanted me.”

“Wanted you for what?” Tad was perplexed. He was getting old enough to understand that Birdie’s Mum dealt in sex, that strangely animal business that was also the source of a good deal of the pain the troubled souls of the village came to Calliope to relieve. Tad, growing up in the witch’s cottage, overhearing the problems of the villagers who came to her for counsel and potions, had come to the logical conclusion that sex resulted in unwanted warts, unwanted babies, and unwanted broken hearts. But what it had to do with Birdie he could not imagine.

“She wanted to have me do him like she does,” he said angrily throwing an acorn he had in his pocket at a distant tree. Birdie was an excellent shot and the acorn hit its mark with a satisfying ping.

“Why would she want that?” asked Tad.

“For money, you dolt,” Birdie replied angrily. As he was a fire mage a few sparks shot from his fingers, like a little kid, before he could stop them.

“Money?” asked Tad. He felt lost. What went on at Birdie’s house was mostly above his head.

“Oh, what would you know?” Birdie said, throwing another acorn, lest he set the tree on fire with unwanted sparks. “You’re just a child!”

“So’re you,” said Tad. “We’re the same age.”

“Yeah but you’re still just a dumb kid.”

“I’m the same as you,” Tad insisted.

“Dumb-dumb!” Birdie said, more fiercely, perhaps, than the situation called for. “Baby! Bed wetting baby!” And he pushed Tad so he almost fell out of the tree. Tad pushed back and the argument resolved with the two of them rolling and tussling in the soft dry leaves of the forest floor. Tad ended up with a split lip, but as punching him seemed to have made Birdie feel better he didn’t really mind.

********

Birdie stayed at Tad’s house for three nights running, until the fellow who had wanted his services was safely gone down the road to wherever such fellows went. Problem was, of course, he wasn’t the only one, and a few months later, Birdie showed up with new shoes and a bag of sweets which he generously shared. He admitted to Tad, while sitting up in the sheltering branches of the old oak tree, that he had succumbed to his mother’s demands, had done something he was too ashamed to speak of with a different man who was passing through, and had got a good meal as well as the sweets and the shoes out of it.

“What did you have to do then?” Tad asked. He was repelled but also extremely curious.

“Not telling,” said Birdie, and his eyes grew dark with determination. He had an odd closed look on his face that Tad had never seen there before. “Not proper information for children such as you.”

This time it was Tad who pushed Birdie first, pushed him hard enough that he did fall out of the tree, and it was only because he was Birdie, possessed of an almost superhuman grace and agility that he landed without hurting himself. Tad scrambled out of the tree after him and the scuffle that ensued left them bleeding and panting. Tad ended up on top of Birdie with his hands around Birdie’s windpipe which gave him the chance to try to to squeeze the information he wanted out of his friend.

“Get…...off,” gasped Birdie, his face turning blue. With an enormous effort, he pushed Tad off him and they were lying side by side in the leaves and Birdie was crying, the tears streaking the dirt on his cheeks. He used the sleeve of his filthy tunic to wipe them away, which just made his face dirtier.

Tad took him in his arms then and gentled his head the way Calliope had done when he was little and hurt. They lay like that in the leaf mold for a long time, with the sparrows tittering in the trees and the early summer sun filtering through the greeny gold leaves above them.

“Can’t you tell me just a little?” said Tad at last.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want you to know about it,” Birdie confessed. “ ‘s’long as you don’t know, we can still play and just be boys.”

“Why’d you do it then?”

“Mum needs money. For her…….for stuff.”

“What stuff?” Julian asked.

Birdie looked at Julian a long moment. At last he turned away.” ‘s’not her fault,” he said, looking at the ground. “She can’t help it. Not really. Anyway, I had to do it.”

“Why?”

“Me or Cricket then, wasn’t it?”

“Oh.”

“Let’s bend birches.”

“Okay.”

********

Things only changed a little bit, after that. Some nights Birdie came and hid in Tad’s bed, to avoid his inevitable duties to the strange men who passed through his mother’s house. Some days he arrived with a new article of clothing, a new bow and arrow, or fluffy yellow sweet cakes with sugar glaze that could only be got in the city. Or chocolate. Or a copper penny to spend in the village. But Tad knew that he wasn’t doing what he was doing (whatever it was) for these tokens, which were quickly enjoyed and quickly discarded. He was doing it to keep Cricket safe.

Tad made his kites and used them to barter the small affections of the village children. Birdie was there to make sure he got his due, in boiled sweets or coin or friendship. He and Birdie climbed and foraged and generally ran wild in the woods. After school let out they played with the village children, same as always, and Birdie was the leader of the small scruffy band, the strongest, the most daring, same as always. And when Birdie was sad and cried, or balled his fists and hit himself until he bruised because he couldn’t stand what he was forced to do, it was Tad who gentled him, who held him in his thin arms until he stopped crying or shaking with rage, who stroked his head until he quieted and could sleep.

They were unquestionably, getting older. Tad was taller, leaner, almost as tall as Calliope. His feet felt too big, his elbows stuck out at odd angles, his voice cracked and broke without warning. Birdie was half a head taller than Tad, and had spots and mood swings. When Tobias came home the next spring and saw the state of things he sat Tad and Birdie down and talked to them about men and women and the ways that they loved each other.

When the full moon came now, Tad felt it pulling deep inside him. It pulled at his joints, his innards, the follicles of his hair. His skin got super sensitive, his voice would deepen to a growl, then crack and suddenly escalate to a howl. He felt a tugging, a yearning, wanting feeling, in his gut, in his loins, that he couldn’t explain. He woke, after one restless full moon night , with a gristly growth of hair sprouting all over his face. Tobias laughed at him fondly and taught him to shave.

That day, however, Tobias started to build a shed of strong wood out behind the goat pen. A shed without windows. He fitted it with a strong iron padlock, and Calliope lined the inside with a bed of soft rushes.

This was where Tad was to stay, when the moon was full, when the change came. Locked in. So he would do no harm to anyone.

He did not want it. He had feared it all his life and now it was coming and there was nothing he could do about it. The change. They all knew it, he and Calliope and Tobias. It would likely be soon.

Tobias set a charm so the shed would be warm even in the coldest winter nights and another charm so the walls would soften if he flung himself at them and would not hurt himself. He kissed Tad and told him to be good. He kissed Calliope and looked long and deep into her eyes. Then he walked down the road, toward the sea and his ship, as he always did, the sun glinting brightly off the steel guitar he had flung over his shoulder. He did not look back.

After that day, Tad decided he was not a child any more, and asked Calliope and Birdie and everyone he encountered to call him by his real name, Julian.

He studied his reflection in the small fishpond near the house in the long spring afternoons. His face, looked back at him, in the wavering light of the spring sun, surrounded by the green leaves above. Brown hair, kept cut by Calliope, curling softly and framing his face. A few freckles across his nose. There would be more by the end of summer. Sky blue eyes. His smile, shy and crooked on the left side, where Birdie hat hit him with a rock two summers back. “Julian,” he said, tasting the sound of his name, his proper name, on his tongue. “Julian.”

Birdie didn’t know about the bite. Tad/Julian had never told him, and the secret had been kept so long that he had no idea how to start. How do you tell your best friend that you are a werewolf?

Of course Birdie had secrets too. Secrets he refused to tell Julian. So maybe they could work out a trade. Somehow. If Julian could figure out how to begin.

“I have a secret, too,” Julian started. They were fishing, in the stream that fed the pond, trying to coax out the speckled trout that lurked in deep patches among the rocks.They didn’t have proper rods but they had cut down tree branches and tied their hooks, which were made of bent pins, onto those.

“What secret could _you_ have?” said Birdie lazily. Unimpressed.

“If I tell you then you have to tell me,” said Julian, determined.

“Tell you what?” Birdie’s eyes were suddenly narrowed. The sunlight glinted off his caramel skin, off his curls, bleached blond from the sun.

“You know what,” said Julian, equally narrow. He knew how to stand his ground with Birdie after all.

“You first,” said Birdie. It wasn’t a concession, but almost.

“I was bit,” said Julian, fast, to get it over with.

“Bit?” said Birdie. He had dropped his lazy, disinterested air and was looking at Julian with his full attention.

“By the…….by…….” Julian couldn’t say it. The secret, guarded all his life, was too deep to tell.

“By the wolf.” Birdie finished the sentence for him.

“You…..You know?”

“I guessed,” said Birdie. “I saw that old bite on your leg ages ago.”

“You did?”

Birdie looked at him with pity in his eyes. “People talk,” he said softly. “There’s a reason you live with the witch you know.”

“Aren’t you scared?”

“Of you?” Birdie scoffed. “Not a chance.”

“I could bite you,” Julian challenged. “Turn you into a wolf. Like me.”

“Only on the full moon,” countered Birdie. “And I’ll be sure to keep myself away those nights. Cricket too,” he added.

“They built me a shed,” Julian told him. “ ‘s’more like a cage really. That’s where I have to go, on the night of the full moon. They’re going to lock me in there.” And he was crying before he could help it.

This time it was Birdie who gentled him and settled him against his chest until the tears stopped. At last Julian said, “I told you - now you tell me.”

“I can’t,” said Birdie, burying his face in Julian’s neck, and inhaling deeply. “Trust me. You don’t want to know.”

********

Now that Cricket was a little older she was sometimes let out to run and play with Birdie and Julian. They taught her how to fish and hunt, where the best berries were, and how to bend birches. She was good in the woods, quiet and observant. Her skin was the color of tea with a lot of milk, her teeth very white. Her eyes were a pale smoky green, a surprising contrast in her brown face. Her hair could be combed out into long black tresses that hung in ringlets around her face and down her back, but for everyday she wore it piled on top of her head in a bun that tended toward frizziness and escaped tendrils of hair. Like her brother, her hair acted like a magnet and all sorts of things got stuck in it; leaves, bits of twig, pine needles.

Cricket had a place she liked to go, a little pool, formed by a small waterfall that cascaded down among the rocks of the trout stream, before it meandered down to the big river, where the gypsies poled their barges in the summer, filled with trade goods and tools for tinkering and the hunters and trappers pulled their long sledges filled with furs and whiskey when it froze over in the dead of winter. The river was a highway of sorts for the small town, and all kinds of people and goods reached it that way.

Cricket liked the little pool, which was cool and shaded in summer, its banks lined with green moss. She wasn’t allowed to go in the water unless Birdie was there, but she liked to sit on the bank and make up all sorts of pretend play with little sticks and leaves that she found. Cricket’s fingers were full of magic. She could press two leaves together and have them fly off, into the air, like butterflies. She made little stick men, tying them together with wisps of grass. She held them in her hand, concentrated hard, and they would run about and wave their tiny arms. She built roads and bridges and lovely castles out of pebbles, and used her magic to glue it all together. She made a fairy house in the hollow of a tree, complete with tables and chairs, a covered sleeping porch, and dishes made from acorn caps and tiny shells. As she worked she sang softly, to herself, her reedy, childish voice mixing with the sound of the waterfall and drifting up among the leaves of the trees. Sometimes, the birds sang back.

One summer day as she was playing by the stream she heard someone coming through the underbrush and Julian and Birdie were there. It was a hot day and they were bent on swimming. Cricket was glad. She had been longing to immerse herself in the cool, inviting water of the little pool.

“C’mere, Crick, I’ll teach you to swim,” said Birdie, in a generous mood. He usually tried to pretend he had nothing at all to do with Cricket, especially when they were out in public.

They stripped down to their underthings and Birdie held Cricket in the cool water, where the pool got deep. The waterfall was splashing and splattering behind them, throwing spray into the air and churning up the water. Birdie showed her how to move her arms and legs. They were laughing and giggling, teasing each other, having fun.

And then, Birdie’s foot slipped and they both went under. Suddenly, it wasn’t fun any more. Cricket inhaled and a huge gulp of water filled her lungs. She reached for Birdie but he was not there. The water was icy, the current strong. Cricket was thrown against a rock. She could not breathe. She flailed for a helping hand and hit hard against another rock.

 _“I don’t want to drown,_ ” she thought desperately, coughing and breathing in another big gulp of water. “ _I don’t want to drown like little Rosie. I want the air.”_ Then, without knowing how she did it, she was lifting out of the water, up and up, into the clear blue sky. She took a deep breath of air, wonderful air, and then she was sitting on a rock at the top of the waterfall, a good twenty feet above Birdie and Julian. Birdie was gasping for air himself, his wet curls clinging close to his head, and the two boys were standing in the pool, water glistening on their skin, looking up at Cricket with amazement.

“How’d she do that?” Julian asked.

Birdie shrugged. “That’s Cricket,” he replied.

Cricket climbed down the waterfall. They gathered wood and Birdie drew sparks and lit a fire to dry themselves by. Julian had potatoes in his pocket. They roasted them in the coals and nothing had ever tasted quite so good as that.


	7. The Change

The moons came and went that summer, the summer Julian started to use his grown up name, but the change held off. Julian lay awake through those hot summer nights, on his reed pallet and watched the full moon sail across the sky through the open shutter. As the summer wore on the calls of the frogs were replaced by the doleful intense singing of the crickets. It gave Julian a sad tugging at his heart, that sound. He sweated and itched. He could not sleep. His penis grew hard and he tugged and pulled at it restlessly. When he couldn’t stand it any more he crawled out the window and roamed the moonlit fields and forests. His senses were alert to every rustle and squeak of the animals moving around him. His skin crackled. In the mornings he would be red eyed and short tempered and Calliope would let him be.

The year turned toward fall. The fields turned golden and the pumpkins grew orange and fat. The days grew short, and at night a chilly wind rustled the dried leaves on the trees. One grey October day, Birdie and Julian went out into the woods and gathered sacks of butternuts, and hauled them home.

That night a storm blew in from the north, the first real autumn rain of the year. Rain lashed at the windows of the little cottage and the wind whistled up among the rafters. Calliope and Julian had a sack of butternuts on the floor between them and they were shelling them into a blue earthenware bowl, passing a cleverly shaped nutcracker in the shape of a crocodile between them. Tobias had brought it back as a gift from one of his trips to the southern islands. The butternuts would flavor their food all winter. Julian especially loved the nut cakes that Calliope would bake for Yuletide. Sweetened with honey, flavored with cinnamon and candied orange peel, they were one of Julian’s favorite treats. But the butternuts were hard, and picking the meats out of the shells was a tedious chore and Julian grew impatient.

“Just use magic, Gammer,” he begged. “I know you can do it. Then it’ll be easy.”

She reached over and ruffled his fine brown curls fondly. “The easy way isn’t always the best way, little one,” she said.

“What’s the good of magic if you can’t use it?” pouted Julian. He picked up a nutshell and threw it into the fire. “And I’m not little any more,” he added softly.

Calliope looked over at Julian, studying him critically. He was too old now to crawl into her lap and cuddle as he once had done. “No,” she said, with a note of sadness in her voice.”You are growing up.” She shook her head, picked up another nut, and cracked it.

“Magic takes…..energy, Julian,” she said gently, picking up the thread of their earlier conversation. “It’s best to use it…..with care. That way, when you really need it, your power will be strong.”

Julian blew on some embers idly. Little flames danced up, colored green and blue, purple and gold. He watched the the colored flames dance and intertwine and then die down. He blew again and once more the colored flames danced with one another. He amused himself this way for a little while, then with a sigh, he picked up another butternut. He placed it in the strong jaws of the crocodile and squeezed the handle. The nut broke apart with a satisfying crack.

“Why does the Brotherhood hate our magic?” he asked, picking the nut meat out of its shell and putting it in his mouth. “Why does the priest in the church say that witches are evil, when all you ever do is help people?”

“Well….” said Calliope slowly. “That goes back a long, long way. Back to the story of Astralina and Cassandra and how they fell to earth.”

“Tell me,” Julian said, though he had heard the story many times. He laid his head on Calliope’s knee. She stroked his soft curls fondly. “Tell me a story.”

“All right,” said Calliope. Her eyes got a faraway look but her hands, large and roughened by work, continued cracking and shelling the nuts. “Once, long, long ago, at the beginning of the world the sky bear gave birth to two daughters. They were twins, two beautiful baby girls. They fell out of the sky, but in those days the earth was still soft, soft as the softest pillow, and they landed gently, and bounced up and down on the soft green fields, and laughed.

“The two little girls grew up together in the green welcoming world. In those days, there was no winter, and fruit grew from all the trees. All the animals helped care for the little girls, watched them carefully so they would not go over a cliff or drown in a stream, licked their wounds when they fell and scraped their knees, cared for them when they were sick. So Astralina and Cassandra grew up from two fat bouncing baby girls into two beautiful young women. Astralina was fair skinned and yellow haired, with clear blue eyes and rosy cheeks. Cassandra had pure green skin, green the color of a field of grass on a May day, and dark green hair that curled and tumbled to her waist like a waterfall. Her lips were a dark deep red and her eyes were black and sparkled with health and mischief. The two sisters loved each other fiercely, would do anything for each other, but then, a man came down to earth, and of course that changed everything.

“He was a handsome man, a star god, from the distant star of Aldebaran. And that was what he was called, Aldebaran. No one knows why he came so far, or why he landed on the earth, but there he was. Of course, both sisters immediately fell in love with him. This caused discord between the two young women like the world had never seen. Astralina blew out her breath and a cold, cold wind gusted across the earth, clouds gathered, snow fell and the world knew winter for the first time. Cassandra stamped her feet and volcanoes rose into the sky, spewing fire and smoke from deep in the earth. Great waves rocked the ocean, hurricanes and tornadoes appeared for the first time.”

“What happened next Gammer?” asked Julian, though he knew the story well.

“In the end Aldebaran chose Astralina. He married her and they had a child. That child grew up to become the Sun King, and beat the great dragon, Feldrick. He is the god who is worshiped in our churches. The Brotherhood wears the sign of the Sun King on their robes to this day……”

“And Cassandra?” asked Julian.

“Ah….. Cassandra. Cassandra was heartbroken after Aldebaran rejected her. She sank into the earth. Many believed she had died, or disappeared forever. But Cassandra didn’t die….no she did not. She lurked in the shadows for many years, watched the triumph of her sister as she married and had a child, and that child rose to greatness. But then, she took a lover. A dark god, a god of the shadows, who lurks in the places where men fear to tread…... graveyards, swamps and fens, the dark shadows of the night.You know him as the grey man, who creeps into children’s dreams, steals babies’ breath in the middle of the night, and lures unwitting travelers into his traps deep in the woods.

“Why’d she take up with him?” asked Julian.

“No one really knows,” replied Calliope. “But she must have been very lonely, watching her sister’s triumph from the shadows, all those years. In any event, with the grey man, she had many children, daughters, all, who became the nymphs and dryads of the forest. Cassandra is the goddess of all the village witches and wise women, who practice in these parts, the spirit who guides us. She is the solace of the lonely widow, she offers wisdom to the young girl, with her heart full of love, and the mother, struggling to feed her family. She gives hope to the lonely and the heartbroken, and makes the world bloom every spring. She is green and good, always hiding, just outside our sight, and looking over us all…..…” Calliope raised her head, suddenly, and went silent. Her demeanor changed from sleepy and dreamlike to alert, listening.

“Hush!” she said, her finger to her lips, though Julian was silent. “Do you hear?”

Shadow, from his perch above Julian’s door took his head out from under his wing and likewise, lifted his head. “Tobias,” he croaked.

Then Julian heard it too, a faint voice, singing in the rainy night. They both knew that voice, recognized it instantly. Calliope ran to the door, opened it wide and she and Julian stood and watched as Tobias ascended the clay road, until he stood at the door, the rain streaming off his wolverine cloak.

Calliope threw herself into his arms. Tobias laughed his big laugh. He lifted Calliope into the air and spun her, as if she were a young girl. He thumped Julian on the back, marveled at how he’d grown. He scratched Shadow, who had flown to Julian’s shoulder, between the eyes. The little cottage filled with talk and laughter. Tobias had brought food - oranges, and chocolate, fish and figs. He had brought gifts for Julian, fabric scraps, in the wished for oranges and reds, and a stout hunting knife as well. For Calliope, he had brought a pretty comb, decorated with colorful seashells. He got out his tin guitar and Julian sang along to the old sea shanties and folk songs he’d known as long as he could remember.

When at last Julian rose to go to bed Tobias stopped playing his guitar and said. “I took no berth for the coming fall.”

“What do you mean, Tobias?” asked Calliope.

“I’ll not go to sea this winter,” Tobias said. “I’m going to pass the cold months here, with the two of you.”

Calliope threw her arms around Tobias, and kissed him, hard. Julian felt embarrassed suddenly and had to look away. He got into bed to the low murmur of the adults talking, beside the fire. He was glad that Tobias was going to stay with them. But as he drifted off to sleep, he couldn’t help wondering, He wondered if the reason Tobias had decided to stay with them this winter might not have something to do with himself, and the coming change.

 

********

 

When the next full moon came, Julian was worse than ever. His skin jumped and crawled, his guts felt as if they were being pulled apart. He could not sit still, and paced the floor of the small cottage relentlessly. He broke into a high weird laugh for no reason. Sweat beaded on his pale forehead and he vomited into the stone sink. The sun was setting, a giant red ball in the west, when Tobias said gently, “I think you’d best get in the shed tonight, son.”

He had never called Julian son before.

The shed was dark and stuffy. Julian lay on the soft reeds and thought he might die. Everything hurt. He couldn’t stand the feel of his own skin, itchy and super sensitive at the same time. He ripped off his clothes, the sensation of them against his body was unbearable.The weird laughter bubbled out of him again, uncontrollably. He wanted to bite and growl. He scratched at his skin, his fingernails leaving angry red welts. Then the moon came up and flooded the world around him. The snarl in his throat turned to a howl that rent the world as his body was torn apart from the inside out.

In the morning, lying bruised and battered on the reed floor he didn’t remember much. Just the feelings, the wildness, the yearning to be free. The rage at being shut in as he had thrown himself, again and again, against the walls of the shed. The smell of the woods, unbearably strong, calling to him. His skin was scratched and bruised. There was an ugly gash across his chest, bite marks where he had gnawed at his own ankle. Calliope and Tobias gathered him up and helped him into the big bed in the common room, where he slept the day away in a haze. Shadow, who was not used to Julian being ill, perched on the bed frame and glared protectively with his yellow eye at anyone who came near. By evening Julian sat up in bed, and sipped some broth with bread crumbled in it, and Birdie was there, joking and teasing and trying to make him feel better.

Cricket had sent him a present, a necklace she had made of red and orange leaves she’d gathered in the woods and woven into a chain. She’d used her magic to deepen the colors. The leaves glowed red and orange from a light deep within them, rich, bright colors that sparkled and shifted over the tightly woven circle of leaves.

“It’s beautiful,” breathed Julian. His voice was returning to him, though it was deeper, older sounding, than he remembered it. The familiar crack in it had disappeared. “Tell her thank you.”

“Put it on,” said Birdie. Julian slipped the circle of leaves over his head.

“Pretty,” croaked Shadow with approval, and flapped his wings.

“You’re a proper girl now,” Birdie teased, and Julian swatted at him weakly, from his place in the bed.

“She’s a Maker,” said Tobias, walking over and touching the chain that hung around Julian’s neck thoughtfully. “That’s an uncommon kind of magic.”

“There’s nothing common about Cricket’s magic,” said Julian, in his new deep voice. “She can do all sorts of things the rest of us can’t.”

“Such as?” asked Tobias, looking at the boys sharply.

Julian looked at Birdie warily. He wasn’t sure how much of this they should be telling. Tobias was looking at them insistently, determination in his deep eyes. Julian had never lied to the older man, or failed to answer any of his questions. Tobias’ demeanor had always demanded truthfulness.

“When she’s scared or upset things just…. happen,” Birdie answered, his voice cracking in the quiet room. “She can bring a storm…..when she’s angry. Rain, thunder, wind. She can……. get out, when she’s locked up, you know, for punishment. When she’s been bad, Mum’ll lock her away in her room, and next thing you know, she’s sitting at the dinner table, pleased as can be, and the door’s still locked. She….. makes things…….Toys…..little men that run about, and butterflies that fly, that sort of thing.” He shrugged. “Ma says it keeps her happy.”

“Who is your father, Birdie?” asked Tobias quietly.

“We’ve different fathers, haven’t we?” Birdie said casually, as if he didn’t care, though his eyes were on the ground. “Never heard the name of my own Da. I know Cricket’s though. I remember him. From when I was little, and Crick was a baby.”

“What is his name? “ asked Tobias, those deep eyes intense on Birdie.

“Never heard it,” said Birdie. “Sorry, but I was just a little kid. He was a big bloke, though, black like you, but different. Swarthy. Big beard. Tattoos all over. Ma was right broke up when he left us. Things were…..never the same, after that.”

Tobias and Calliope exchanged a quick glance. And although Tobias questioned him further, Birdie insisted that was all he knew of the man.

That was the moon. Every month it was the same. Julian hated it, but it was only one night out of every twenty eight. The day before was the worst. The growl building in his throat, the itching and twitching of his skin. Knowing that at moonrise he would lose himself in the wolf. He hated that. The nights themselves passed in a blur of animal rage. And the morning after, when he was weak and bruised and hurt all over, there was Tobias with his strong arms, and Calliope with a healing salve and warm broth, and Birdie with his ready smile. At least Julian was safe. He could not hurt anyone, while he was locked in the shed.


	8. The River

The winter that Tobias stayed with them was long and cold. In the great city of Isinglass, life was becoming more difficult, and the attic of the little cottage was often filled with refugees. They came after dark and stayed for a few days. They spoke with Tobias and Calliope in low whispers around the kitchen table. Julian was old enough now to understand what was being said. He lurked in the shadows of the room, quiet so they would not notice him, and listened.

It was a bad winter in Isinglass, the worst yet. The people who came to hide in the attic were scrawny and half starved. They were dressed in rags, their feet bare and bleeding. Food was so scarce that the poor could no longer afford to eat. The soldiers of The Brotherhood rode the streets, sending terror into the hearts of the citizens, rooting about for those who plotted against them, or used illicit magic. There was talk of revolution, but weapons and supplies were sorely lacking. Spies were common. It was hard to know who to trust.

One cold night Julian was awakened by a sharp rap at the door. He rose to open it, expecting one of the villagers in need of Calliope. It was not unusual for her to be called out in the night, to tend an ailing child, a birthing woman, or a valuable horse that was down. Instead he found Mudshark, the ferryman whose abode was down at the river’s edge and whose livelihood was ferrying passengers across the deep, dangerous river. He was a gypsy, Mudshark was. He wore his hair bound up in a kerchief and had a gold tooth. Sometimes the children would venture down to his small cabin, a crooked wooden structure that perched on the river bank on stilts, like a ruffled heron. He would play his violin for them if they begged him long enough.

Julian heard Tobias rouse himself and a moment later felt a hand on his shoulder.

“What news Mudshark?” Tobias asked in a tense whisper. There were eight refugees hidden upstairs. They had come the night before, ragged and terrified. Julian heard not a sound from the attic.

“Brotherhood troops, coming up the river,” Mudshark answered, his voice a growl. “Three large sledges, well lit, a-carrying ‘em.”

“How far?” asked Tobias.

“About a half mile, when I left. Probably landing about now,” came Mudshark’s reply.

“Good man!” said Tobias. “Thank you.” And Mudshark was gone in the night.

“Go upstairs,” Tobias told Julian shortly. ”Rouse our guests.”

The refugees were used to moving on in a hurry. In ten minutes they were at the door, wrapped in cloaks and blankets, packs on their backs. Calliope pressed a basket of provisions into Tobias’ hands and kissed him.

Tobias took Julian’s hand for a moment. “Look out for Calliope,” he said. Then he and the refugees were gone, out the back door and into the woods, Tobias walking at the rear and erasing their footsteps with a spell.

A few minutes later, the Brotherhood troops were at the front door, loud and jeering. Calliope and Julian were upstairs, checking the attic to make sure every trace of the visitors was gone, when they heard a loud banging, and the little cottage was filled with the soldiers’ red and purple uniforms, their boozy breath.

“Where’s your man, Witch?” they demanded rudely of Calliope.

“My man is a seafaring man,” Calliope answered calmly, with dignity. “He’s off with his ship, as usual. Everyone knows that.”

“What about this one then?” said one of the soldiers, leering at Julian with interest. He leaned in close and Julian could smell the sour beer he’d been drinking. “Almost old enough to sign up, he is. Fancy the soldier’s life boy?”

“You might think twice afore letting that one into the Brotherhood’s Army,” said another, with a rude chuckle.

“Why not?” asked the first soldier. “He looks fit enough for the life.” He pinched Julian’s arm appraisingly.

“Witch’s brat, he is,” said the other man. “Must be someought wrong with him, or he wouldn’t be living here.” He cuffed Julian on the side of the head, so hard that his ears rang. The soldiers surrounding them guffawed appreciatively.

Calliope snatched Julian away protectively. “Get on with it then,” she said sharply. “Do what you’ve got to do. Though you’ll find nought here to interest you, I can assure you. I’m a simple goat woman. I’ve nothing to hide.” Julian thought of the stash of books hidden behind the loose board above Calliope’s bed and willed himself to look anywhere but there.

The soldiers put their daggers through the mattresses and broke the crockery water pitcher. They raided the cellar and took the smoked goat meat and cheeses but they didn’t find the hidden cupboard and within an hour they were marching down the road toward the frozen river, singing and cursing and leaving Calliope white and shaking with rage.

Tobias returned two tense days later, having taken the refugees on to the next safe house. He’d had a long hard hike back as the snow had started falling.

“We can’t do this anymore,” he said to Calliope. “They knew we were hiding people. It isn’t safe.”

“They’ve nowhere else to go,” said Calliope stubbornly, a determined set to her mouth. “Nowhere between here and Half Hastingston.”

“You just hate the Brotherhood,” said Tobias, taking her in his arms.

“Always, love,” she replied.

********

When spring came on that year, Calliope and Julian were to accompany Tobias to the port. There was someone Tobias and Calliope wanted Julian to meet, they explained. This was an unheard of adventure, and Julian felt more excited about it than he had ever felt about anything. He begged and begged, begged like he never had before, and at last Tobias and Calliope agreed that Birdie could join them. Cricket was sorely disappointed not to be included but there was really no question of her coming. Her mother wouldn’t allow it and that was that. Cricket pouted for days and refused to speak to either of the boys.

Mudshark and Tobias were good friends, as both were old seamen, and Mudshark found them passage on a barge headed for the port at a good price. On the day they were to leave Julian was up before dawn, the excitement of the upcoming journey thrumming through his veins. He got up and washed outside in the cold bucket in the chilly pre-dawn light. Little tufts of air blew off him and stirred the young blades of grass and new leaves into a frenzy.

By the time the sun was peeking over the distant mountains, they were heading down the road to the river. For the first time since Julian had been a baby the little cottage stood empty. Calliope locked it with a spell before they left. Shadow the falcon was high in the air above the them, following along at a distance.

They stopped at Birdie’s house, where his Mum answered the door. She stood in the doorway and yawned sleepily, Cricket’s hand clutched firmly in her own. Calliope had a few polite words with her. Cricket looked as if she had been crying, and she would not look at Julian. Birdie appeared, sleepy and disheveled, with a few possessions tied up in a handkerchief. He was ready to go. He said goodbye to his mother and sister and they started down the road. As they were leaving, lightning flashed above them, though the sky had been a clear blue minutes before. Thunder crackled and rain poured down on their heads, completely drenching them. Julian looked back and saw Cricket, grinning broadly at them, still clutching her mother’s hand.

It was three days journey to the port town of Galwyn. They slept on the open deck of the barge, with the sailors, who were delivering a load of timber, cut from trees high in the mountains. The landscape changed as the river carried them down, off the high plains, where they lived, to the river valley below. Their life, on the high clay plains, was based on herding, on cattle and sheep. There were a smattering of craftsman's towns - hamlets known for their pottery, or their spinning and weaving. Every town had a village kiln, and some of the local ceramics had a primitive beauty, and were prized throughout the land for their bright glazes and vibrant designs. There were spinning towns, weaving towns that produced wool fabric of a high quality unmatched anywhere in Tellurium. But most of their neighbors lived largely off the land, relying on kitchen gardens and hunting to supplement the meagre living they earned from the wool they raised.

The landscape they entered was markedly different from what they were used to. It was river bottomland, rich farm country, with huge fields stretching on either side of them, tinged with green where new cops were starting. The earth was moist and black. Grain silos stood, tall and proud, among the fields. The houses stood up on bluffs overlooking the river, fat and comfortable, surrounded by orchards and vineyards.

At night the rivermen built a coal fire in a great iron brazier on the deck of the barge and they sat around the glowing warmth. They told stories, or talked politics, or Tobias would get out his tin guitar and they would sing, their voices rising into the air with the sparks from the fire that flew up into the stars. Shadow, who flew along with the barge during the day, perched on Julian’s shoulder and watched them all with his yellow eye, his head cocked to one side. Then he would fall asleep at the top of the single thick oaken mast, keeping watch on Julian, who was rolled up in blankets next to Birdie under the stars.

The last day of the journey the landscape changed again. They were going through the fens, a bleak and barren country, with few houses and miles and miles of grey marsh grasses and dark brown bracken. The birds were huge in these wetlands. There were ravens, staring at them with beady eyes. There were enormous herons standing still as statues on one foot. The turtles, seeking sun on the black logs, were big as dinner platters. As evening came on, the river started running backwards from the incoming tide, and the boatmen had to pull out polls to propel them against the stream. For the first time in his life, Julian smelled the salty tang of the sea.

They pulled into the port town of Galwyn at dusk. The sky was lowering over the water, an inky purple, and the river was like a velvet ribbon, winding through the twinkling lights on either shore. Julian and Birdie had never been in a place so big. They smelled the scents of the port, saltwater and rotting fish. Delicious aromas of cooking came from the pubs that lined the river. The town climbed steeply, clinging to the sides of the hill that rose between the river and the sea. At the top stood the main cathedral, its stone buttresses and spires outlined against the western sky, where the last rosy glow of the sunset lingered. In front of them was the harbor. The masts of the sailing ships bristled against the dark sky. There were so many that it looked like a forest in winter.

From the docks came sounds of many voices, people calling to each other, children playing, seamen swearing, a snatch of song. The lights reflected and twinkled on the water multiplying themselves ten-fold. A fresh breeze blew in from the sea, and Julian decided it was the best thing he’d ever smelled.

They ate in a chowder house on the water, the cook dishing the creamy soup from a huge iron kettle on an open fire. Tobias and Calliope took a room at an inn where Tobias was well known. The boys rolled in their blankets in a loft above the stable, burrowing in the sweet smelling hay for warmth and listening to the intriguing sounds of the town at night. They had never imagined the nighttime could hold such light, such promise.

That night, Birdie put his mouth on Julian’s for the first time and it felt so good Julian never wanted him to stop.

“Is this what you do, then, with all of them?” he asked Birdie, breathlessly, when they paused for air.

“No,” said Birdie huskily. “It’s nothing like it at all.” And he bent to kiss Julian again.


	9. Galwyn

The next day, Calliope took Julian alone through Galwyn’s narrow and twisting streets, away from the harbor with its smells of tar and rotting fish. They went up a steep road, between neat whitewashed houses, tightly packed together, until they came to a street called Magic Street. It was lined with spellcasters shops, amulet shops and dusty little book shops with intriguing titles in the windows. They turned into a building set well back from the rest of the street by a low stone wall. Behind the wall there was a tidy garden vibrant with spring blooms. _Giddeon’s Apothecaries,_ read the sign hanging from a post outside in slanting spidery writing.

Inside all was cool, dark wood and a smell of herbs. The man behind the counter of the little shop greeted Calliope warmly. “This is Giddeon,” she told Julian. “We were friends at school. He is going to help you.”

Giddeon looked Julian over carefully. He peered in his eyes, looked into his mouth and thumped on his back. He had Julian spit in a jar. He brought the jar over to his workbench and added a powder. It emitted a puff of purple smoke.

“Interesting,” said Giddeon under his breath. He was a bespeckled man with thinning brown hair and a slightly distracted manner. There was a threadbare look about him, though he was very kind. He pulled a volume off a shelf above his workbench, loaded with well worn books, and looked something up, using a long finger to mark the place.

“I’m a werewolf myself, you know,” he confided in Julian, looking up.

Julian was startled by this admission. He had no idea how to respond. He felt his throat go dry, his palms sweaty. “I…..thank you,” he stammered out. “I….me too.”

“I know,” said Giddeon, smiling at him, his green eyes twinkling. “Calliope wrote me all about it.”

“How do you…...stay safe?”

“I take my potion, every month, same as I’m making for you. Of course, everyone's a little different, aren’t they? That’s why each person’s potion is unique. We’ll have to go out in the garden and have look around.”

“Why?” asked Julian

“Each plant speaks to the person in a slightly different way. You’ll see,” Giddeon replied.

He led Julian out a low door in the back of the shop. They entered a small walled garden. It was a rambling and beautiful place. There were tools scattered about. Green vines grew up the stone walls and tumbled out of raised beds into the paths. At the center there was a bed shaped like a spiral, surrounded by daffodils that glinted yellow in the bright spring sunshine. At the back was a low stone bench and an iron table surrounded on either side by plum trees in flower. Bees buzzed. The smell was heavenly.

Giddeon moved deliberately through the garden, stopping to pluck a sprig here, a leaf there. He rolled the bits of plant between his fingers and sniffed them. He held green sprigs and flowers under Julian’s chin and nodded thoughtfully. He popped a leaf in his mouth and chewed. A small sparrow came near and alighted on his outstretched finger. He listened attentively while the bird twittered. “You think so?” he said to the little bird. “I suppose.”

At last he had gathered a small collection of plants in his basket. “Violet,” he said happily. “Bloodroot. Valerian. Snake’s tooth flower. Dandelion. A lovely combination. Some licorice, I think for flavor.” He snipped a few dark looking leaves off a low growing shrubby plant. He pulled on gloves and got out some clippers. He went over to a plant growing in a large pot set aside from the tangle of the rest of the garden in a sunny corner. He cut a few large, deep blue bells off the top and added them to the basket, grimacing, a look of intense concentration on his face. “Never touch that one directly,” he warned Julian. “That’s the wolfsbane. Deadly poison to us. Of course, it’s what gives the potion its power.”

Inside, where Calliope waited in the cool stony darkness, Giddeon handed Julian a small iron cauldron and instructed him to go out to the rain barrel and fill it with water. Julian obeyed, approaching the the ancient looking wooden barrel with trepidation. A frog jumped out when he pulled up the creaky, heavy lid. Moss grew on the inside of the moist wooden wall, but the water was clear and cold. He filled the iron cauldron. When he brought it back, Giddeon lit a fire under it and added ingredients one at a time, consulting a recipe in a large ancient looking book for the exact timing and stirring of each herb. Some had to be stirred in to the right, some to the left. Some needed 10 stirs round the cauldron, some needed 20. He stirred in the plants he had gathered one by one, leaving the wolfsbane for last, muttering an incantation, too softly for Julian to make out the words. Blue steam rose, the same color as the wolfsbane flowers. Julian smelled a sickening sweet odor that turned his stomach.

Giddeon took down a locked wooden box from a high shelf and opened it, using a tarnished copper key. He put on his gloves again, removed a small bottle and added three drops of a shimmering liquid.

“Silver,” he breathed. “Also highly toxic. Also essential.” The smoke turned from blue to silvery, the potion turned to a light green with an opalescent sheen. A breeze blew the front door open, blowing away the sickening smell of the wolfsbane flowers and filling the room with the fresh salty scent of the sea.

“It’s finished,” said Giddeon, with a wave of his hand, and grinned at them broadly, and he suddenly looked very young.

********

After Julian and Calliope left, Giddeon climbed a narrow winding stair to the second story. The upper floor of the stone house was a single room, large and airy, with a slanting roof and round windows set in deep alcoves at either end. The western window looked to the town and the harbor below.

A man sat at a desk, writing, the scratching sound of his quill pen on paper was loud in the quiet room. An open book sat before him, which he referred to frequently.

“How’s Calliope?” he asked, looking up at Giddeon.

Giddeon crossed the room and went to look out the western window at the busy harbor below. The afternoon sunlight caught the water and sparkled. He watched a large, three masted ship heading out of the harbor and toward the horizon, the sails straining against the steady westward breeze.

He shrugged. “She’s changed,” he said. “She seems…...old. I don’t think life has been easy for Calliope, these past years.”

“Well, my brother has seen to that,” said the other man. He stood and stretched. He was tall and thickly built, with a head of wild black curls, shot through with grey. His face was tanned and lined as if he spent a great deal of time outside. “I would have liked to have seen her. I was always fond of Calliope.” He crossed to the window and put his arms around Giddeon. He lowered his mane of dark curls and nuzzled his neck.

“Loaldo,” breathed Giddeon softly.

“How’s the boy?” asked Loaldo.

“Sweet,” replied Giddeon. “Young. He seemed very sincere. Intelligent. He’ll make Calliope proud, I think. There’s….” Giddeon paused.

“What?” asked Loaldo. He turned Giddeon round, drew him away from the window, and kissed his mouth. “What is it?” he asked again.

“There’s…. A destiny on the boy, but I can’t quite read it. Something…..important, but I can’t tell what it is.”

“An aura?” asked Loaldo.

“More like a feeling. The way the plants reacted to him. The sparrows were all atwitter. He has a destiny on him, I’m sure of it.”

“The defeater is a female,” said Loaldo, sharply. “You know the prophecy as well as I.”

“No, not that,” said Giddeon. “Something…..different.”

“We could scry it,” said Loaldo, “If you think there’s something there.”

“Yes,” said Giddeon. ”Yes, I think we should. There’s something different about that boy. I can’t put my finger on it.”

“When?” asked Loaldo. He kissed Giddeon’s neck, his collarbone.

 “Sunset,” said Giddeon. “It’s the most auspicious time.”

“Just before I set out then,” said Loaldo, catching Giddeon’s lips with his own, and sliding his tongue between them. Giddeon’s breath caught and he pulled Loaldo close, deepening the kiss.

“I don’t want you to go,” said Giddeon. “Not yet.”

“Come to bed,” said Loaldo his voice grown husky, his grey eyes darkening with desire. “I want to walk into that Brotherhood meeting with the smell of the werewolf on me.”

“All right,” said Giddeon, softly, so softly it was almost a whisper, and Loaldo saw the savage glint of the wolf in Giddeon’s usually mild green eyes. Together they moved toward the high old fashioned bed that stood in the corner of the room and fell onto it, rough and eager, and pulled the curtains closed.

********

Giddeon set up the scrying glass in the western window while Loaldo slept in his bed. The scrying glass was a thing of beauty that had belonged to his father, and he valued it above anything he possessed. It was heavy slab of glass, rounded at the bottom, thicker in the center, like an egg sliced in half. It had been set in a silver stand, worked with an elaborate design of vines and flowers. Giddeon could not touch it directly of course. He always handled the precious object wearing goatskin gloves.

When the light turned low and red orange, he sat on the side of the bed and touched Loaldo on the shoulder. Loaldo sighed and turned. He opened his eyes and smiled when he saw Giddeon sitting there. He reached for him, and tried to pull him back to bed, but Giddeon laughed at him and drew away.

“The scrying,” he said. “It’s time.”

Loaldo rose and dressed and the two of them stood before the window. They chanted an incantation softly, together, and Giddeon passed his hand three times over the glass. The thick glass caught the red rays of the setting sun, turned cloudy for a moment, then cleared. They watched together as images of Julian's life flashed across it. They saw him as a baby wrapped in a wolfskin, tucked into a basket made of reeds. They watched him learning to toddle in Calliope’s simple cabin, digging the garden, milking the goats. A falcon dropped from the sky. A kite, shaped like a boat, flew through the air, though there was no wind. They felt the joy of Tobias’ return every spring, tasted oranges and chocolate.They watched as Julian met Birdie for the first time, saw the boys climbing trees, bending birches. Skating in winter, swimming in summer. Cricket. The moon. The change. They felt the fear that went with every change, the red anger of the wolf, confined in the small stuffy shed. They felt the excited anticipation of a journey to the port. They saw the wonders of a trip down the river, smelled the sea, as if for the first time. Then Birdie’s mouth, leaning in, hot and sweet in the moonlight, and the smell of hay.

“The girl,” said Loaldo hoarsely, as the images and sensations faded. “Could she be the one?” Loaldo’s eyes were far away, seeing…. something. Loaldo had the sight, and Giddeon held his tongue, allowing the vision to come to Loaldo’s mind. Slowly, Loaldo’s eyes focussed again on Giddeon, but the question remained in them.

“The dark haired one?” asked Giddeon. “Perhaps that is the destiny I sensed.”

“It’s…..not clear,” said Loaldo, and he put a hand to his head, as if it ached.

Giddeon came round then, and pulled him close and kissed his temple. Loaldo kissed him back and they stood there together for a few moments. The sun finished its descent below the horizon, leaving the sky an explosion of afterglow. The light in the room turned dusky.

“I must take my leave,” said Loaldo at last. “The Brotherhood meets at midnight.”

Giddeon sighed. He dreaded this leavetaking, but it seemed foolish to say it again. “Be careful,” he said, instead. “Guard your mind. Don’t give anything away.”

“I always am,” said Loaldo, kissing Giddeon one last time. He separated from him reluctantly and started pulling on his boots, his well stained traveling cloak. “I won’t be able to get back here for a fortnight, at least,” he said as he laced up his boots, tying the leather cords tight around his calves.

“I’ll be all right,” said Giddeon.

“I hate to leave you alone at the full moon,” said Loaldo, worriedly, looking out the eastern window where the half moon was riding high in the sky.

“It won’t be the first time I’ve been alone at the full moon,” Giddeon said wryly. “I know how to take care of myself. I’ll take my potion. I’ll be safe.”

“It’s the day after I worry about the most,” Loaldo said. “That’s when you really need someone.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Giddeon. He stood and fastened the brass clasp at Loaldo’s neck, wrought in the shape of the sun, the symbol of the Brotherhood. “I’ve crawled out of that cellar many times by myself. I mostly just sleep the day after, anyway.” He arranged the folds of the cloak over Loaldo’s broad shoulders, brushed off a piece of lint.

“I’ll worry,” said Loaldo, shouldering the pack that stood by the door.

“You’re the one going into actual danger,” said Giddeon. He kissed Loaldo’s forehead one last time and pushed him out the door. “Just come back to me safe. I can’t bear to lose you again.”


	10. Airship and River Barge

Loaldo walked up the dusky road until the lights of Galwyn faded into the darkness behind him. He turned off, onto a trail that led up into the stony hills.

It was a lovely evening, cool and moist, the air was fragrant and the frogs sang in the vernal pools in the woods. The half moon filled the world with a silvery glow. The path was dry and even under his boots, and Loaldo felt hope fill his heart as he walked along. He always felt best on the road or in the air. Traveling on. The knowledge that Giddeon was there in the small stone house by the sea, waiting for him to return, filled him with a fierce, possessive joy. He was sad at their parting, but determined that they would be reunited soon.

After about an hour he came to a ledge, leading down through a narrow slit in the rocks to a small ravine. He scrabbled down a rocky scree to a hidden valley. He closed his eyes, concentrating, and his right hand made a gesture, circling upwards and out, then letting go into the air. When he opened his eyes his airship, which had been hidden from sight, was revealed before him.

The airship was a thing of beauty, and Loaldo loved it as he would a child. It was his livelihood, his independence from his family and all that they represented. He jumped aboard, and started a fire with a spell in the small metal firebox. The hot air rose, the balloon above started to swell. Loaldo checked the ropes, the stays and fastenings. He opened a hatch on the deck and descended a ladder to the cabin below. The cabin was a round room with windows set all about. There were rounded bunks, curving against the walls, a map desk in the center, a small heating stove with a chair on either side, a tiny galley. He checked the ship’s stores, the water tank, more than half full. All was in order.

When the balloon was taut and straining against the ropes Loaldo cast off. The airship rose gracefully into the night sky. It floated over the sleeping springtime landscape. The moon and stars seemed closer than before. Loaldo saw the port town of Galwyn, twinkling off in the distance and knew that Giddeon was there, waiting for him to return. He missed him already but he had to put that out of his mind for now. He was going home, to the capitol, Isinglass City, where his family waited, ready to snare him in their webs, and discover his secrets. To get through it he would have to be strong, disciplined. He turned the rudder so the moon was at his right shoulder and headed into the east.

********

Loaldo approached the nine lighted hills of Isinglass with trepidation. This was his hometown, the place he had been born and raised. He had gone to school here. It had been the scene of all his youthful adventures and follies. The emotions he felt approaching Isinglass were deep and complex. He had returned here months ago to the joy of his family. He had rejoined the Brotherhood, had convinced his family that he had mended his ways, that he was on their side now. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. The truth was, he had cast his lot with Giddeon and the Resistance.

It was not hard to pick out his family compound from the air. The Thorne family complex dominated a large plot of land at the top of the sixth hill in Isinglass. It was surrounded by an imposing wall, topped with gryphons made of stone. Tonight torches were set up on the parapets, illuminating them with a garish red light and throwing their shadows into sharp relief.

He landed in the courtyard, knowing he had been seen from afar. Good. He wanted to make an entrance.

His father Phineas was standing in the courtyard when he landed, flanked on either side by his brothers, Malachi and Caspar. All three of them were powerful members of the Brotherhood; part of its leadership, its center. They had gladly welcomed Loaldo back into the fold, and granted him a position of authority and power. Within a short time, he had been made privy to all the most high level and secret discussions.

He hated it.

If he could choose a life he would turn his airship around, gather up Giddeon in Galwyn and then just keep going, over the sea to some distant archipelago in the far reaches, where an aeronaut could earn a good living ferrying goods and people among the islands and he and Giddeon could live a life of peace together. That was all he really wanted.

He had come back for Giddeon. He had been gone for many years, after the First War, when the Brotherhood had seized power, when Malachi had tormented Calliope and killed her baby, when Balthazar had been forced to reveal his true nature, his dragon nature, and had run away. It sickened Loaldo, all of it, and he had relinquished his name and his birthright, hired out to sea as a crewman, though he was not a sea mage. But his power was in the sky and he had made himself useful on the crews he had shipped with, calling and taming the wind. He had made his way south, crewing on one small vessel after another, never staying with any one ship for very long. Eventually he had gotten a job as a hired hand on one of the large airships that fly among the isles of the great southern archipelago. There he had learned the craft of the aeronaut, and had eventually saved enough to buy his own ship.

He’d had a scattering of lovers over the years, in different ports, at different times, women as well as men, although as time went on, he realized he preferred men. Mostly these love affairs made him miss Giddeon, and what they’d had. Eventually, he made his way back to Galwyn to the stone house above the sea.

Giddeon was a green mage, and those are quite rare. He’d been brilliant at school, magically gifted, with the mind and habits of a scholar, and would have had a successful academic career, except for one thing. The bite on his thigh, the mark of the werewolf, that caused his mind and his body to be ravaged each full moon. This immutable fact had made Giddeon decide to return to the stone house by the sea, the house he’d grown up in. There he had carved out a lonely life as a humble village herbalist and apothecary. His wisdom and kindness had built him a reputation such that people sought him out from miles around. He locked himself in his straw lined cellar each full moon. He had never stopped missing Loaldo. It had been a decent life, though a lonely one.

Once he was reunited with Giddeon, Loaldo knew he didn’t want to give him up again. It was Giddeon who had made him realize that he had a part to play, Giddeon who had the connections to the underground resistance, Giddeon who had encouraged him to return to the city, the viper’s nest of his family, and do what he could do to overthrow them.

He was playing a dangerous game and he knew it.

 

*********

 

Loaldo’s airship descended gently into the courtyard. He tied up to a post and jumped down with natural grace. His father, with a mane of grey curls and leonine features so similar to Loaldo’s own moved forward and took his hand.

“It is good to have you home, Loaldo,” said his father, who seemed genuinely pleased to see him. “You are nearly late. You had best go change at once.”

“Indeed,” said Loaldo, nodding to each of his brothers in turn.

“Greetings, brother,” said Malachi, his voice unctuous and cold. He was not pleased with the return of Loaldo to the family fold. When Loaldo had been gone, Malachi had been the obvious favorite. Now that he had returned, Malachi seemed to feel that his position was threatened.

Caspar, tall and pale, dressed in black, stood in the shadows, his lank hair pulled back from his face. He merely nodded at Loaldo in greeting, his dark eyes hooded. He was the middle brother, and the least favored by their father.

Loaldo escaped to his chambers as soon as he could. There he found a tub of water, charmed to stay hot. He stripped down and got into it gratefully. Once clean and dried he donned black leggings and a velvet jacket in olive and gold, the colors of his family. There were black leather boots which had been shined to a gleam by one of the family servants, so different from the travel stained ones he had arrived in. He stepped into them and laced them with a flick of his wrist. He brushed out his mane of curls and was just starting to shave when he heard a soft knock on the door.

Caspar stood in the low flickering light cast by a torch set in the wall. Loaldo invited him in with a nod, wondering what he wanted. He continued shaving. They were not close.

Caspar settled himself, half sitting on the gracefully curving arm of a chair embroidered with a rich tapestry pattern. He folded his arms across his chest. He watched his brother shave for a few moments without speaking.

“How are things in Galwyn?” he asked at last.

“Well enough,” replied Loaldo. “The books were in a mess when I got there. I believe that Billy O'Malley is a crook, but I got things in order by the time I left.”

“How’s Giddeon?” said Caspar dryly.

Loaldo looked at him sharply for a moment, then continued shaving.

“I’m not stupid, you know,” said Caspar. “I can put two things together.”

“Does father know?” asked Loaldo.

“I’ve no idea. But you’re naive if you don’t think he has spies in every port.”

“Malachi?”

“Probably too busy gazing at himself in the mirror to notice much.”

Loaldo finished shaving, rinsed his razor in the basin, wiped his face on the towel.

“What do you want Caspar?” he asked looking at his brother steadily.

“I want to warn you to be cautious. Every alley in this kingdom contains a spy, and there are many who would love to see the downfall of this house. It’s nothing to me if you want to consort with homosexuals and werewolves and village apothecaries, but be careful. It is the kind of information that can be used against you, used against us, if it ever became known.”

“All right,” said Loaldo, biting back his anger. “I will be cautious. If there's nothing else….”

Caspar held up a hand. “Saskia wants to meet with you privately,” he said. “She asked me to arrange it.”

“Saskia?” asked Loaldo, running his hand through his just brushed curls and setting them into disarray. “What does Saskia want?”

“I don’t know,” said Caspar. “But I suspect she may be wanting to offer a mutually beneficial arrangement. If you agree, I can set up a time and place.”

Loaldo nodded.

“I’ll see you at the meeting, then,” said Caspar. He stood, and passed his hand about 6 inches over his younger brother’s head, causing his spiky hair to arrange itself again into smooth glistening curls. Without a word or a smile, he was gone.

 

********

 

Calliope and the two boys said farewell to Tobias on the busy dock of Galwyn, noisy with the serious business of the harbor. Men shouted and sang, huge bales and barrels of all sorts were loaded and unloaded by sweating, bare chested stevedores, pushing massive handcarts or winching heavy cranes. Julian and Birdie watched the huge loads, suspended from thick metal hooks high above their heads with thrilled fascination.

The docks were teaming with people from all over Tellurium. There were tradesmen from Isinglass with fine clothes and haughty manners. There were dark skinned Vincurians, long limbed and serious, with indigo diamonds tattooed down their cheeks, like tears. There were ruddy faced farmers from the Chatterling lands, plump and shrewd, bargaining fiercely with the merchants along the dock. There were short squat Nerlings, with a blue tinge to their skin, who plied their wares from their reed canoes, chattering noisily to each other in their own language. The smells of the dock were overwhelming, tar and the sea and the enticing smell of good things to eat - roasted chestnuts, pickled herrings, spicy chickpeas, fresh bread. Tobias bought the boys a cone of chestnuts to share, and they burned their fingers, peeling away the charred shells to get at the sweet white meat. Then he kissed Calliope, clapped Birdie and Julian on the shoulder, and strode up the gangway, his heavy pack on his back.

They stood and watched as his boat cast off and moved away from them, carried by the breeze and the receding tide. It wasn’t until the billowing sails of the ship disappeared over the curve of the horizon that Calliope turned away and wiped her eyes.

The next day, they boarded the same river barge they had come down on. This time it was nearly empty, save for some supplies needed for the logging camps up north, and half a dozen surly unwashed men, seeking summer work in those camps. The sailors on the barge were less than cheerful, at the prospect of a long arduous journey upriver, poling a good deal of the way, hoping to catch a wind to help them.

There were no songs and stories around the iron firepit on this trip. The woodsmen kept to themselves, in the bow of the boat, drinking and playing dice, and the rivermen were quiet, wary, keeping an eye on their goods. At night, when everyone was asleep, Birdie hitched over toward Julian’s bedroll and they kissed and kissed, for hours, it seemed, under the starlight, until their mouths were sore and their bodies yearned toward each other, wanting something more. In the daylight they were moody and irritable, watching the shoreline go by, changing from marshy fens, to fat Chatterling farmland, tinged green with the first sprouts of spring, and finally, past their own familiar landscape of sheep dotted meadows and deep forests. They took their turn at the poling along with the other men and when the wind died completely on their third day, Julian went quietly to the back of the boat, closed his eyes and called a breeze from the south. Things went along better after that. Everyone’s spirits lifted with the sails and by evening they had arrived at the shore of their own town. Cricket was waiting for them at the dock, her eyes alive with excitement, her previous anger at them forgotten.

Tobias had sent her a present, a small set of paints in brilliant colors, cleverly packaged in a leather case. She was delighted with her gift. Birdie went home with her, and Calliope and Julian trudged up the steep clay path toward the little cottage on the hill, in the clear evening air, Shadow flying above them in the pink glow of the sunset.

 

********

Birdie and Cricket walked up the river road, hand and hand in the darkening gloom. Cricket watched her brother as he strode along. He seemed to have grown older in the week he had been away. He held himself taller, more confidently. His legs, which had looked too long for his body of late, now moved over the ground assuredly, with the stride of a man.  _ He looks like a grown up, _ thought Cricket, not sure how she felt about this. He whistled as he walked along, a sweet happy sound.

They came to their crooked house and went inside. They heard the sound of women’s voices, musical, laughing. Their mother, Amanita, and her friends were gathered about the parlor table. They had the Tarot cards laid out. The women were dressed up, ready for their evening work to begin, faces painted, hair coiffed and curled. Silks rustled.

Their mother looked up at them. She looked beautiful in the low light, which softened the haggard look her face often had. Her dark hair fell to her shoulders in soft curls. Her gown, pulled tight over her bodice, revealed bare smooth shoulders. Her expression hardened when she saw Birdie. Her eyes darkened and her mouth twisted into a grimace.

“You’re back,” she said hollowly.

“Yeah,” said Birdie and headed for the stairs to his small attic room.

“You’ll be wanted later,” she said to his back, and Cricket watched as he lost his happy swagger, his back slumped, and his feet dragged heavily up the stairs.

Cricket watched him go. It filled her heart with sadness, to see him deflated like that. But there was nothing she could do.

Her mother’s voice broke through her reverie. “Come here Cricket,” she said. “It’s time you learned to read the cards.”

Cricket approached the table with trepidation. Amanita’s friends, her girls as she called them, intimidated her, with their soft laughter, rustling silks and heavy perfumes. They liked Cricket They were eager to welcome her into their world. The problem was, it was a world she was quite sure she did not want to join.

Big Jenny was reading the cards for her mother. Cricket knew a little bit about the tarot. She looked at the cards laid out on the table. They looked ominous to her. She saw the devil, in the root position. He leered from the card. A naked man and woman were chained at his feet. She knew what this card meant; Emptiness. Entrapment. Addiction. The card in the crown position was the Two of Swords; a blindfolded woman seated in front of the sea, holding two crossed swords. Her mother’s future looked like indecision, and stasis.

Amanita turned over another card, and placed it in the bottom right hand position. It was the Six of Swords, a woman and her child in a rowboat, leaving the safety of shore, for a new land. “This is your home,” whispered Big Jenny.

Another card. Her mother’s face was calm, but Cricket noticed the tremor in her hand, which was pale and smooth, the nails lacquered blood red. The Fool grinned up at them, a young man, about to walk nonchalantly off a cliff, a small white dog at his heels, a flower in his hand.

“This is your love,” Big Jenny said.

Cricket knew, without ever having been told, that Amanita was still in love with her father, who had left them when she was a baby, and had never returned. She wondered if he was anything like that silly man, walking along looking at the clouds, not seeing the danger right ahead of him.

Perhaps it just meant that her father was a fool for leaving them.

Cricket looked up at her mother’s beautiful face, painted carefully in anticipation of the customers who would soon be arriving. She looked calm, in control. It was to be a good night then, no shortage of slit, no shortage of money to buy slit. Which meant that Amanita could tolerate whatever hardships or humiliations the night would hold.

 

*********

 

Hours later, Birdie lay on his pallet in his attic room. He had done as his mother asked, and the customer was gone. He felt bad, though. He felt as if he couldn't quite get the stench of that man off of him. The man’s skin had been oily, and he had smelt of garlic and something ….danker. Birdie listened as the church tower up in the village chimed the hour. Midnight. The bells rang clearly in the spring air. The moon was bright - one night short of full. Birdie wondered if Julian was awake. He tossed and turned and could not sleep.

A small stone hit his window, then another. He sat up and peered out into the moonlit world. Julian was below, his hair standing up, electrified. His eyes were dark hollows.

“Come down,” he called hoarsely.

Birdie almost said no. _What does he have to be upset about?,_ he thought bitterly, anger flaring. But he wanted to be with Julian right now, he couldn’t deny it.

Julian threw another rock, which pinged loudly against the wooden frame. “Come on, Birdie,” he said and he laughed an odd, high pitched laugh. “Come out and play, in the moonlight.”

“Cut it out,” Birdie replied. “You’ll rouse the whole house.”

“Come down,” Julian said again, urgently.

“All right,” agreed Birdie. “Hush, now.”

Birdie pulled on some clothes, and crept quietly as he could, down the two flights of crooked stairs to where Julian waited for him.

“Birdie,” breathed Julian and he put his arms around the other boy and pressed their foreheads together. Birdie could feel the damp sweaty heat of him in the cool night air, the wild beating of his heart. The tree frogs were loud, filling the night with their high otherworldly trilling, and the moonlight sparkled over their skin.

“Catch me if you can,” cried Birdie, suddenly feeling the need to run. He felt emotions welling in his chest, feelings he didn’t understand. He leapt away. Julian gave a high startled laugh, and then he took off after his friend. Birdie was swift, and graceful, but Julian was hard on his heels. Birdie led him up the river road and into the woods, the moon shadows striping their skin. He could hear Julian breathing loud behind him. They ran on until they came to their favorite old oak. Birdie turned, and grabbed Julian who laughed that strange high pitched laugh once again. He smelled sweaty and there was another scent, a musky smell, like an animal. His eyes were bloodshot, and shining weirdly, with a hint of phosphorescent green when he moved them, like a cat’s. He shoved Birdie’s back against the oak pushed their foreheads together once again.

“I felt as if I was going to jump out of my skin,” Julian said.

“It’s the moon,” said Birdie. He was panting. He reached up his hand and touched the rough stubble on Julian’s face, which sent a weird thrill right through him.

“I feel him in me,” Julian whispered, his breath hot and rapid on Birdie’s cheek. “He’s coming.”

“Not till tomorrow night,” Birdie whispered back. “We’re all right now.”

“I hate him,” Julian said, with feeling.

“Don’t think about him now,” Birdie said. “Forget about him.” He put his hand to the nape of Julian’s neck and pulled his mouth close and kissed him, there in the moonlight, in the fragrant night, that smelled of damp earth, and flowers. He felt Julian’s muscles wound tight like springs, felt the heat coming off him. Julian snaked his arms around Birdie’s waist, and Birdie felt him relax, as he kissed him back.

They stayed there in the shadow of the old oak tree for a long time, kissing, melting onto one another, in the sweet spring night. At last they wound their arms about each other’s shoulders and made their way slowly out of the woods and down the River Road to Birdie’s house. There they spooned together on Birdie’s narrow pallet, and slept.

But that night, Birdie had a dream. He dreamed that Julian was a wolf and was chasing him through the forest. The moon was the same as it had been last night, not quite full, but Julian was transformed, with huge yellow eyes, and fangs that dripped blood and Birdie was afraid. Then a strange creature came out of the woods, covered with scabs, oozing pus. Human, but only just. Birdie had the sense that he was made of wood. How could that be? “Help me,” the strange man cried hoarsely, grabbing for Birdie’s arm. Then the creature puked, spectacularly, at Birdie’s feet, white curdles of vomit, glowing in the moonlight. Birdie was more afraid of this apparition than he was of Julian the werewolf, chasing him from behind. He turned back, and Julian was a boy again, a beautiful boy, glowing in the moonlight. He enfolded Birdie in his arms, and then they were flying, high above the trees, away from that ghoulish apparition.

Birdie woke with a start. He was sweating. It was dawn, and the birds were twittering outside his window. Julian was stirring beside him. He sat up, shook his head. He still looked rough. His eyes were bloodshot, his pale face shadowed with thick dark stubble. Birdie’s heart twisted for a moment, thinking of the full moon coming, and all Julian would have to endure that night.

“I’d best get home,” Julian muttered, “Before Calliope starts to worry.” He got up from Birdie’s pallet and staggered toward the door.

“Julian,” Birdie called. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say.

“Yeah?” Julian paused at the door and looked at him, but he seemed far away, his eyes unfocussed.

“Be careful tonight, yeah?” Birdie said softly.

Julian shrugged, and went out the door. Birdie lay there and listened as Julian’s footsteps receded down the crooked attic stairs. _It was a stupid thing to say_ , he chided himself. There was no way that the wolf could be careful. He was the opposite of careful. He was wild, untameable.

He knew he was starting to feel things for Julian, things that he should not feel. But in that moment, Birdie thought that he would give anything to spare Julian the pain and fear that the coming night held for him.


	11. Plum Blossoms and Green Cigar

Loaldo hadn’t known Saskia well. She was a Glimmerstone, her father and his father were distant cousins. He remembered her as part of the tribe of Thorne and Glimmerstone children that had run and tumbled together in his youth, under minimal supervision. The buildings and grounds of the sprawling Thorne complex at the top of the sixth hill of Isinglass provided ample room for their play. There were turrets and castle walls to climb. There were little hidden gardens with secret doors that could only be entered with the right spell. There were orchards with fruit that ripened in the fall, and topiary lanes where the trees were pruned to resemble fantastic beasts. There was a small forest where a tame herd of deer peeked out shyly from among the trees. They could be coaxed to lick salt out of one’s hand with a little patience. There were cellars and libraries and abandoned nurseries with dusty sets of tin soldiers and china faced dolls long forgotten by their original owners. There was a cobwebbed attic complete with a ghost that rattled about and wailed in a most satisfying manner.

In those days, Loaldo had been at the head of many schemes and pranks that won their little band the moderate disapprobation of the adults, though he never remembered the punishment for their crimes as being particularly harsh. He was indulged, as youngest son, and his clever tongue and natural charm worked quickly to get him out of many a scrape. He remembered Saskia as significantly younger, slender and independent, with a long fall of pale blond hair. At school they had been part of the same crowd, though they were never close.

He met Saskia in a small tea shop, dusty and dimly lit, at the end of a narrow winding street in the University district. The inside of the shop stank of incense, and of magic. The proprietor was a cyclops, whose one eye was blue and sharp. She had a mournful expression on her face and thick red hair coiled into an elaborate knot at the top of her head. Saskia arrived wearing a midnight blue cloak with her face deeply shadowed in its hood. She whispered some kind of pass code to the cyclops proprietor, and handed her a silver coin. They were led to a private table behind a screen, where Saskia pushed back her hood and kissed Loaldo on the cheek.

The cyclops brought them ginger tea and lavender scones. They sat in rickety chairs and exchanged gossip. Saskia had been a rather gangly girl but she was a beautiful woman with straightforward features and clear grey eyes. She had a long elegant nose, and flaxen hair pulled into a simple knot at her neck.

They chatted easily, about old school friends and family, and Loaldo wondered why she had never married. After about an hour of this, she tossed her head back and looked him in the eye.

“How’s Giddeon?” she asked, as Caspar had done.

Loaldo swallowed, and willed himself not to blush. Her frank look was piercing. “Fine,” he replied, lifting his chin and meeting her gaze. He felt suddenly aware of the hair falling across the back of his neck, the clasp that closed his simple white tunic at his throat. He felt himself swallow, more exaggerated than he had intended and then, damn, he felt the color rising in his cheeks.

Saskia reached across the table and took his hand. She turned the palm over and stroked it lightly. Her eyes never left his face. “You and I are in a similar situation, I think,” she said.

“How so?” he asked. His voice was hoarser, more intense, than he wanted it.

“We are both under considerable pressure to marry, to have children,” she said, her gaze steady, her tone light. “Yet, that might not be our inclination.”

“No,” said Loaldo. “It….might not.”

“It might not be fair to Giddeon, I think, if you were to marry.”

“No,” said Loaldo. He felt the sweat beading on his forehead. “It wouldn’t.”

“Do you remember Pippa?” asked Saskia.

“I’m…….not sure,” said Loaldo, leaning back against his seat and wiping his brow with his free hand.

Saskia laughed and let go of his hand. “Relax, Loaldo,” she said. “Your secrets are safe with me. Pippa was a few years behind me at school so she was probably, what…..five years behind you?”

“Something like that,” said Loaldo, trying to smile at her. His mouth had gone dry and he took a sip of his tea. The gingery warmth filled him with its satisfying tingle.

“Do you remember her?” asked Saskia again. “Black hair? Slight build? Quiet? Clever?” Loaldo did remember, vaguely. He smiled noncommittally.

“Pippa is the love of my life,” she said, frankly. “But I too, am under pressure to marry. And we….” she hesitated for the first time. “We would like a child, Pippa and I.”

“What are you proposing?” asked Loaldo. His voice again was huskier than he would have chosen, almost a growl.

“A marriage of convenience,” said Saskia, a bit too briskly. “It would please both our families immensely. We could continue largely as we always have. We could maintain our own households - that’s not really unusual.”

“And…..the child?” asked Loaldo. He could not deny his desire for a child.

Saskia gave him a long appraising look. Loaldo did not know if he had ever felt quite so exposed as under her cool grey gaze.

“Shared between our two households,” she said, evenly. “If that is what you wish.”

Loaldo held her gaze so long he felt the silence settling between them, like a small living being. He had no idea what to say.

“Think about it,” she said at last. “Talk to Giddeon. We have both waited long enough to marry. Our mothers can certainly wait a while longer.” She gave him a wry smile, and rose to leave. He followed her lead, and got up awkwardly. He dropped some coins on the table, with a rattle of silver. She took his arm.

“Come,” she said lightly. “Let us walk by the canal.”

The plum trees were blooming along the canal. Their smell was heavenly. Spring sunshine was filtering through an overcast sky, but in the east, storm clouds were gathering, heavy with rain. The plum blossoms glowed against the dark grey sky, as if illuminated from within.

They walked. Thunder rumbled in the distance. A flock of schoolchildren, freed from the day’s lessons, came running toward them along the canal, their ivory and blue uniforms glowing weirdly in the stormy light. They were indubitably heading to the promenade along the lake, to spend their pennies at the kiosks strung along the shore, where ice creams and hot chocolate and roasted chestnuts were sold. Their chatter echoed and bounced off the water. It didn’t seem that long ago that Loaldo himself had been that age. He could still remember the joy he had felt at the moment when school let out, with the freedom of a whole afternoon spread out before him.

“I always did like Giddeon,” Saskia remarked as they walked.

“I remember her now,” said Loaldo. “Pippa.” And he did. A raven haired girl, her eyes mysterious and dark. Observant. A sharpness to her, a deep intelligence. “I can see why you love her.”

A change came over Saskia’s features when he said this. They softened, and gentled, and a new light came into her eyes. Loaldo felt a sudden liking for her, that he had never had before.

“She is my heart,” said Saskia, simply. “And I am queer as the day is long. But I would bed you, gladly, if it meant we could have a child.”

Loaldo felt himself relaxing, and he realized that he had already decided. If Giddeon would agree, he would take Saskia up on her strange proposal. He put an arm around her and felt her curve into him, her hips, her slender waist, the generous curve of her ass. It had been years since he’d been with a woman. She rested her head on his shoulder, and her hair smelled of rosemary.

*********

It was a hot day, close to midsummer, and glorious. The fields were undulating in patches of light green and dark green, silvery green and golden green, under the gentle summer breeze. Up on the highlands, the grass seemed as if it could go on forever. _It’s like an ocean_ , Julian thought, now that he had seen the ocean. The sky was dotted with fluffy white clouds that looked like reflections of the sheep in the distant fields. Bees buzzed in the flowers of Calliope’s herb garden outside the front door. It was a day to be roaming the woods and fields, fishing, searching out the first of the wild strawberries, climbing trees, swimming. Unfortunately, Calliope had a list of chores in her head that seemed a mile long, and Julian could not get away.

The goats had freshened on the soft green grass of early summer. They were making a lot of milk. Calliope and Julian milked them in the early morning, side by side in the small goatshed in companionable silence. The white frothy liquid filled their buckets. Calliope set the milk in the cellar to clobber. Every third day they made cheese. This was a tedious process involving stirring, salting, stirring again, draining and finally tying up the curds in linens, pressing them in the cheese press, and storing them, once again in the cellar to age. After this the maturing cheeses needed to be turned and brushed with brine. Then there was the garden that must be weeded, the goat shed mucked out, the fruit trees that needed watering. By the time Calliope released Julian to his own devices the day was half gone.

At last he was running through the fields and meadows looking for Birdie. The day had turned hot, the cool breeze of morning had died away and the buzzing of the insects was impossibly loud. He did not know where Birdie was. He tried their favorite oak tree without success. “ _Too hot,”_ thought Julian ruefully, and headed for the swimming hole.

He was sweating and breathless by the time he arrived. He was rewarded by the site of Birdie, lazing on the shady riverbank with a fishing pole propped between his knees. He was wearing a bright yellow shirt and sky blue trousers (where he got these clothes Julian could not imagine.) He looked cool and comfortable. The waterfall filled the air with it’s rushing music. The rocks on the bank were covered by deep green moss. Even the light in this sheltered place seemed cooler, greener, softer. 

Birdie looked up and grinned at Julian, setting his fishing pole aside. Julian felt his heart fill with the contradictory emotions of joy at seeing Birdie and anger at him for having had the whole day off while Julian had been slaving at his chores. The heat made all these feelings close to the surface and next moment he had hurled himself at Birdie and the two of them were tumbling and wrestling on the soft moss at the edge of the stream. First Julian had the upper hand, then Birdie flipped him neatly, pinned him by both shoulders, and laughing, planted a kiss on his mouth. Julian scrabbled to find purchase with his feet and the next moment rolled Birdie until he was lying on top of him, and then kissed him back. They went on in this way for some time, back and forth, first Birdie on top, then Julian. Julian felt the need to wrestle, to dominate the other boy, intermingling with the need to kiss, to feel Birdie’s soft, hot mouth against his own. His skin was hot and sweaty against Birdie’s, his chest felt tight, bursting with a tangle of feelings. The insects of summer were buzzing loudly around him. A lovely tingle ran down his back to his belly. His cock, grown hard, pushed against Birdie’s thigh.

“Where’s Cricket?” breathed Julian at last. This was her favorite place to play on a hot day.

“Mum won’t let her out today,” said Birdie. “She’s got chores.”

“You’re the only one who hasn’t, then,” grumbled Julian.

Birdie just grinned at him, saucily. “Don’t be mad,” he said. “Want me to make you feel good?” And he put his hand on the front of Julian’s trousers.

Julian drew his breath in sharply.

“Is this what you have to do, then, for those men?” he asked Birdie, his eyes wide, never leaving his friend’s face.

“Nope,” said Birdie. He bent forward, and kissed Julian’s mouth again. Julian drank in the warm soft sweetness of it, deep and tender now, not breathless and playful, like before. “Not the same at all.” He worked his hand inside Julian’s trousers. “Do me, too,” he whispered, his voice gone husky. Julian worked his hand under the waistband of Birdie’s thin cotton pants into the warm, soft, dank place where his boner stood up to meet his hand in a nest of wiry hairs. Birdie smiled and closed his eyes. “He’s beautiful,” Julian thought as he stroked his hard cock and Birdie stroked him back and then it felt so good that Julian wasn’t thinking at all, just feeling, as the pleasure and excitement slowly built and he heard Birdie crying out from what seemed far away even though they were in each other’s arms. That cry made his insides twist with a pleasure so intense he thought it might stop his heart and then they were both coming hard, pressing into one another and Julian was wrapping his legs around Birdie to pull him as close as he could.

Julian breathed in the smell of Birdie’s wiry golden brown curls in the hot June sun, an oily sweet smell mixed with the sharp smell of sweat and sex. Julian had never smelled another boy’s cum before and the scent made his stomach do a delicious kind of flip flop. He was soaked through with sweat and his skin felt all glowy and soft. A light breeze played at their damp skin, cooling them.

Above them insects were buzzing, little white butterflies and midges with silver wings that flashed prisms in the sunshine. After a while, Birdie untangled himself from Julian and started aiming his finger at the bugs, lazily shooting out a thin yellow flame and hitting them with a satisfying sizzle.

“Don’t shoot the butterflies,” said Julian.

“Why not?”

“They’re pretty.”

Julian rolled over onto his belly and looked down into the stream where tiny fish were swimming about in the crystal clear water, their bellies flashing silver occasionally. He felt the sunlight hot, on the back of his neck.

“What do you have to do with them, then?” he asked Birdie, watching the fish. “The men.”

“Why do you keep asking?” asked Birdie, annoyed.

“I just want to know,” said Julian to the fish.

“Why?”

Julian rolled away from the stream bank and sat up, looking Birdie in the eye. “Because you’re my friend, dolt,” he said.

“So what?”

“So I care about what happens to you. And I think I should know.”

Birdie looked at him, a long moment, summing him up.

“Blow jobs,” he said shortly. “That’s all.”

“Oh.” Julian thought about that. He knew about blow jobs, but only because he’d heard the other boys in the village talking.

“How much?” Julian said after a few minutes.

“How much what?”

“How much do you get paid?”

“10 silver.”

“Oh,” he said again. It didn’t seem like very much. Not for that.

Silver and copper were the main currencies of the village. Gold was rarely seen. Half a silver coin could buy a loaf of bread. But lately the prices had started to rise.

“That’s all?” asked Julian.

“Well, there was one as wanted to fuck me in the ass, but I ran away that night.”

It sounded violent and horrible, the way Birdie said it. Julian said nothing. He didn’t know what to say.

“Know enough now, little bro?” Birdie asked and he pulled Julian’s head in and kissed him in a way that made Julian just want him to keep on with it. But after a minute, he pulled himself free of Birdie’s grasp. He sat up and plucked a fat burdock leaf from the side of the stream.

“I’m the same age as you,” Julian said hotly.

“No you’re not,” said Birdie. He sat up beside Julian and likewise plucked a burdock leaf. He started rolling it into a scraggly cigar.

“I am,” insisted Julian. “We’re the same!” He heard himself, as he said it, and he sounded like a little kid.

“In years, maybe,” said Birdie. He finished rolling his cigar and lit it with a flame he conjured with his finger. He inhaled the acrid green smoke but it just made him turn red and choke.

“They’re no good green,” said Julian. “You have to dry the leaves.”

“Dry it for me then,” said Birdie, handing over his stogie.

So Julian concentrated hard for a moment. He drew a hot wind from deep inside himself and blew on the homemade cigar until the leaves were brown and crinkled. Birdie lit it again and inhaled with satisfaction. He offered it to Julian who shook his head no. He had learned to be wary around Birdie’s experiments in smoking.

Birdie sat there in the greeny gold shade and smoked his cigar. After a few more puffs he made a face and stubbed it out impatiently. He threw it into the water. Both boys watched it float down the stream.

Birdie grabbed Julian and kissed him, the lightest brush of lips and tongue. Julian tasted the acrid smoke from the burdock cigar in his mouth. Then Birdie rolled away, onto his belly, and looked off into the woods, at the trees dense with the green of early summer.

“It’ll be Cricket soon,” he said, to the trees.

Julian rolled as well, so he was also on his stomach, next to Birdie, looking off into the woods. “What’re you going to do then?” he said.

“We’ll run away,” said Birdie. “That’s all.”

“I’m going with you,” said Julian.

“What?”

“When you have to go. Don’t leave without me.”

“No,” said Birdie, and his voice was loud and suddenly angry.

“I want to go with you.”

“Idiot!” said Birdie, and there was real scorn in his voice.

“What do you mean, idiot?” said Julian and he punched Birdie, hard, on the shoulder, hard enough to make him wince.

“Stupid!” said Birdie fiercely. “Why are you always so stupid?” Instead of punching Julian back as expected, he sat up and turned his back.

Julian felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. He had no idea why Birdie was so suddenly filled with anger and scorn.

“I’m going too,” said Julian stubbornly, feeling fierce himself in his confusion. “I won’t let you leave without me.”

“Why should you go?” said Birdie, his back to Julian. Julian couldn’t see his face but it sounded as if he was close to tears. “You have Calliope. You have Tobias. They would never make you do….. Anything bad. You’d be an idiot to leave them.”

“I don’t care,” said Julian.

“You should care,” said Birdie.

“I have to go with you.”

“Why?”

“To keep you from breaking your fool neck, all right?” And Julian reached around and grabbed Birdie’s chin. He turned his head until they were looking into each other’s eyes and he put his mouth on Birdie’s and kissed him, opening his mouth and twining their tongues together, while Birdie’s breath made a little gasping noise.

Julian broke away, and buried his face in Birdie’s neck, where he could feel his pulse beating under the thin, golden skin. He breathed in the smell of the other boy. “I want to go where you go,” he said into the warm curving hollow.

Birdie responded by punching him on the ear, hard enough to make it ring, and then they were tumbling and wrestling again, until they were sitting breathless on the bank of the stream, side by side and everything felt comfortable again. And Julian felt that, somehow, something had been settled between them.


	12. A Man With Wings

_The Brotherhood meets at midnight._

_The third week after the full moon, without fail._

_The Brotherhood meets at midnight._

_Sometimes the first week after the full moon, if there is something of import to discuss._

_The Brotherhood meets at midnight._

_And sometimes, rarely, but it has been known to happen, the Brotherhood meets on a night when there is an event of such importance, that their coming together cannot be delayed._

_Bur always it is at midnight._

********

Loaldo was annoyed. Excessively annoyed. He had a lot on his mind. He had been to Galwyn had visited with Giddeon, had partaken in the pleasures of his hearth and his bed, but he had failed to mention Saskia and her proposal. He had a sense it would not go over well, and in the end, his courage had failed him.

Giddeon was sensitive. He was strong, a survivor, but his emotions were delicate. Loaldo had hurt him once. Badly. It had separated them for fifteen years.

He did not want to hurt Giddeon again, but he could not get Saskia and her proposition out of his mind. So he had gone to Galwyn, and done, probably, the worst thing possible. He had pretended that all was as it had always been, although everything had changed. Saskia’s offer to bear a child for him was on his mind the whole time.

Things were not as they always had been, and Loaldo knew it.

It was like an itch, under his skin, and he could not scratch it. He thought of Saskia, her grey eyes, her blond hair, pulled so enticingly in a knot at the back of her neck. It was not desire he felt, not in the least, although how to convince Giddeon of that, that was the heart of the problem. Instead he pictured the child they would make together, grey eyed, strong boned, intelligent and proud.

He wanted it, that child. He could not deny it.

He wanted it, and he wanted Giddeon as well. But he knew, as surely as he knew his own name, that Saskia’s proposition would not sit well with Giddeon.

So he had gone to Galwyn. He had stayed with Giddeon for a full week. There was peace, there was the sense of home, that only Giddeon could give him. And he had said nothing, although the image of the child hung before him the whole time, a tantalizing, beautiful, possibility.

Loaldo was used to getting what he wanted.

He knew he must say something to Giddeon, but he was afraid. Saskia had not contacted him again, but he knew he must give her an answer soon.

Now back in Isinglass he felt cagey, restless. He felt like a trapped animal. He found he could not sit still through the endless round of social events and obligations that took up the bulk of his time when he was in the city. He was short tempered with his mother. He ate too much, drank too much, gambled with the young men of the court and was reckless with the allowance his father had reinstated to him.

He was older than them, this crowd of lusty, bored, young men with nothing much to lose. The boys he and Giddeon had gone to school with were mostly married now, settled into businesses and family occupations. The young men of the court, who lazed and flirted, were part of a younger set, who had always looked up to Loaldo, in the old days. He found them irritating now, their concerns and passions petty and soulless.

He yearned to return to Galwyn, to the stone house above the sea, where he could keep his father’s shipping business in order and come home to Giddeon every night.

At last, he could not stand it anymore. He decided to return to Galwyn early. He felt he had fulfilled his obligations to his family, put on an adequate show of being a young noble of the court. In truth he had been worried about running into Saskia. He had no answer for her, and he was afraid of what she would say.

He went and took his leave of his mother. She was an unhappy woman, fat and overly taken up with the gossip of the court. She did not want him to go, of course. It was an uncomfortable farewell.

He went to his chambers and started to pack. The sun was setting. It was a beautiful midsummer evening, the leaves on the trees lush and verdant, the moon nearly full. He was glad to be returning to Giddeon for the moon, and the change. He always hated to leave him alone for that.

But just as he was ready to depart there was a sharp rap at his door and Caspar, dour and unsmiling as always, stood before him.

“The brotherhood meets at midnight,” Caspar said. His voice was flat, inanimate.

“What?” said Loaldo, disoriented. “Tonight? Why?”

 Caspar stood and said nothing.

“Come…. come in,” said Loaldo, still feeling confused. “What…..what’s happened?”

“Ratty’s back,” replied Caspar, stepping into the room and shutting the door.

“Ratty?” said Loaldo, doubly confused. “That’s…. I thought he was gone … you know, for good.”

“As did I,” replied Caspar. “But apparently we were both wrong.”

Loaldo sat heavily on the bed, and sank his head in his hands. “Ratty? Really? I was just packing to go back to Galwyn.”

“So soon?” asked Caspar.

“I…...you know, the books…..the business,” said Loaldo, hoping it didn’t sound too much like he was making excuses. “Things go better when I’m there.”

“Hmph,” said Caspar. “And Giddeon, I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Loaldo. “Giddeon.”

“You’re not making a terribly good show of wanting to be here,” remarked Caspar.

“No,” agreed Loaldo. “I suppose I’m not.”

“Have you met with Saskia?”

“Yes,” said Loaldo looking at him sharply.

“And?”

“That, brother dear is none of your damn business.”

A heavy silence filled the room. The two men stared at each other. Loaldo could not understand why his older brother was taking this sudden interest in his affairs. His unsolicited attention was adding to Loaldo’s sense of irritation, of itchiness and annoyance. At last Caspar spoke.

“Mother thinks it is time for you to marry,” he said.

“I’m sure she does,” said Loaldo, unable to keep the anger out of his voice.

“She asked me to talk to you.”

“What about you, Caspar?” Loaldo snapped. “You could marry. Procreate. That would get mother off my case. At least for a little while.”

“That would not be possible,” said Caspar shortly.

“Why not?”

And Loaldo was surprised to see his brother redden. Caspar stood there awkwardly, looked at the ground, shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

“There’s someone, isn’t there?” Loaldo said in amazement.

Caspar just continued to stare at the ground.

“Boy or girl?” demanded Loaldo.

Caspar did not reply.

“Boy then!” said Loaldo triumphantly.

“No,” said Caspar. “It’s……a woman.”

“Who is she then? Do I know her?”

Caspar gave him a very dark look.

“Can’t you tell me?” Loaldo wheedled.

Caspar strode over to the window and looked out. Loaldo watched him. Had he ever really looked at him before? Since he was a boy, he had thought of Caspar mostly as a thorn in his side, an impediment in the way of whatever he wanted to do.

Now, Caspar stood at the window, clearly overcome with emotion.

“You really care about her,” said Loaldo with wonder.

Caspar just nodded once, his eyes on the courtyard below. Neither man spoke for a long minute. At last Caspar shook himself and pulled his black cloak more tightly around himself. “My secrets, brother, are as…...controversial as yours. Potentially more so. So I would appreciate it if you would keep this conversation to yourself. Hopefully you have matured enough to keep your tongue in your head. Good evening to you! I will see you at the meeting.”

With a swish of his black cloak Caspar left the room, leaving his brother staring after him in astonishment.

********

It was the time of year when there was always too much to do, Giddeon thought anxiously. Midsummer. The planting not yet finished and the weeds starting to take over. And then, there were customers. It was a busy day in the shop. There was a summer cold going about the town, not the sweat, thankfully, but a cough and fever, and Giddeon had several remedies on his shelves that were in high demand. It wasn’t until late in the morning that he even got out to the back garden and then his heart sank at the sight of the many undone tasks before him.

He set to work with determination, pulling weeds, trellising plants, setting out young seedlings in the moist earth. Giddeon could coax plants out of the poorest soil. If he paid close attention he could sense what they craved, be it light or water, a deeper root bed, or richer soils. His head and his heart were filled always with the slow yearning of plants, the quiet murmuring of their roots as they communicated with each other under the soil. It made him thoughtful, and quiet.

It had been a good summer for butterflies, Giddeon mused as he worked. They flitted around him, decked out in iridescent yellows and blues. He was glad he had planted so many flowers. Their blossoms supported the little ones, the bees and the butterflies, the flies and the midges, that did so much of the work of making things grow. The insects buzzed about him, the warm sunshine poured down, a gentle breeze lifted the heads of the flowers, daisy and chamomile, calendula and poppy. Giddeon lost himself in his weeding and was content.

After about an hour he paused and sat back on his heels, wiped the sweat from his brow. He noticed a dark pair of eyes peering out at him from behind a blackberry bush.

“Hello,” said Giddeon, amused. “Best come out and show yourself.”

A small girl, with a thin angular face and huge expressive eyes emerged from behind the bush. She was dressed in a white frock that clung to her thin frame. It was shabby, but clean. Her hair was raven black, brushed smooth and held back from her forehead in a neat ponytail.

“Who are you?” asked Giddeon, in a friendly, gentle voice. He was quite used to the neighborhood children coming round to have a look in the garden.

“I’m Jupiter,” the small girl said shyly. “Whatcha doing?”

Giddeon looked her over appraisingly. She was the kind of skinny girl that could be anywhere in age from six to ten. Underfed skinny. Her dress was clean but a bit frayed at the edges. Still serviceable but far from new. Her feet were bare and dusty. Her sharp face was filled by those dark inquisitive eyes.

“I’m Giddeon,” he replied. “I was just about to give the plants a drink. Would you like to help?”

The dark head nodded vigorously yes.

“Lets see if there’s any water in the barrel then,” said Giddeon, getting to his feet.

“You’re the man who makes the plants grow,” said Jupiter as she walked along beside him.

“That’s right,” said Giddeon. He liked this serious, observant little girl. He opened the lid of the water barrel with a creak. A frog jumped out and Jupiter laughed, and the sound filled the garden with sudden sharp joy.

********

Julian and Birdie were outside on a beautiful midsummer night. They were hunting crayfish, down by the river, in the wide places where the water was slow and lazy. The crayfish lurked under the flat grey stones that could be found there. The moon, nearly full, shone and shimmered on the smooth silvery river, and Julian could feel it in his blood, in his muscles. He felt very alive - very aware of the sounds of the night - the singing of the crickets, the movements of the animals in the woods. Very aware of Birdie, breathing beside him, of the tension in his muscles, the beating of his heart. This was the good part, the week before the moon. Julian knew in a couple of nights this increased sensitivity would reach a fever pitch, and become overwhelming. That the night before the moon itself he would feel on the edge of madness, a great howling cavern, about to suck him in. Then the moon would come, and he would be a beast for a night, locked in a shed, raging, howling and sweating, saliva dripping from his fangs, a danger to anyone who came near him. After that he would be depleted and weak, wounded, humbled by the sheer force of the wolf that had possessed him. And then the cycle would start over again. In a strange way, Julian was becoming accustomed to it. At least he knew what to expect. And the potion that Giddeon had prepared for him helped, some. It made the rage less severe, the recovery quicker. Julian remembered more, though he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

But tonight was a good night. The moon shone on the river, silvery and pure, exciting Julian’s senses rather than overwhelming them. He and Birdie splashed and laughed as they chased after the slippery dark crayfish. They skinned their knuckles and got their fingers pinched and their trousers soaked. At last they had a bucket full of the wriggling, dark creatures. They covered the bucket with damp leaves. The crayfish would make a fine meal for tomorrow, and the boys were pleased with their haul. On the walk home, Birdie kept pulling Julian into the shadows and kissing him and Julian liked it so much, every time. He wanted to grab Birdie, and wrestle him to the ground and never let him go. But Birdie kept slipping away from him, running off to the next clump of dark shadowy trees, speckled with silver, and then grabbed him and kissed him again. It was like a game and Birdie, laughing and light footed, was the leader, and all Julian could do was helplessly follow.

They came up the River Road and round to the back of Birdie's crooked house, They were laughing softly together, poking at each other, knocking their shoulders into one another companionably, their spirits high. And there, in the neglected overgrown garden, rising out of the shadows, was a man. A man with wings. He was dark - dark skinned, dark haired, with a dark scar under his left eye, three ragged lines, raked across his cheek. His dark eyes glittered in the moonlight. His wings, black and leathery, rose behind him in jagged peaks. Julian could see that he was well built, and muscular, but there was something about the way that he stood that made him seem weary and defeated.

Julian felt Birdie tense beside him, and he knew at once that this man was no stranger.

“What chou doing here?” Birdie breathed softly to the winged man. “What do you want with us?”

The man with wings stood there, his head bowed, and Julian thought he was the saddest man he had ever seen.

“You broke Ma’s heart.” said Birdie, and now Julian could hear the sharp edge of anger in his voice. “She near to died.”

“I’m sorry,” said the winged man, in a deep resinous voice.

“I had to care for Crick, myself. I was five. I changed her diapers, found something to put in her mouth that a baby could eat. Ma couldn’t even nurse her, she was that sad.”

“I’m sorry,” said the man, again, and Julian could hear the pain and regret in his voice.

“Ain’t never been the same since you left. Ma never smiled. Not a real smile. Not like she used to. Not once in all these years.”

The dragon man turned away, and his shoulders were shaking.

“Give her this,” he said, at last, looking up at Birdie with those glittering eyes. “Birdie, give this to Cricket. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry but I have to go now. I have to go a long way off. Tell Amanita.....tell Amanita I love her.” And he crouched, and far more gracefully than Julian could have imagined, for such a large man, he leapt off the ground and into the sky, his wings flapped powerfully and he was soon a small speck against the moon.

“I ain’t telling her shit,” said Birdie softly, to the retreating figure.

They both looked down at what Birdie held in his hand. It was a small shining golden key.

********

After the winged man left, Birdie and Julian made their way up to the attic in silence. It was late, and the house was still. Birdie clasped the gold key tightly in his hand, and said nothing.

When they got up to his room Birdie shut the door firmly and then he fell on Julian, hungry and unstoppable. Julian was giving it right back, kissing, pressing his body into Birdie’s, feeling Birdie’s wiry arms, pulling him tight against his hard chest, their hips grinding together. “Gonna do something for you,” said Birdie huskily, not looking at Julian. He pulled off Julian’s thin cotton trousers, pushed him down onto the bed. Julian’s cock looked huge and swollen, standing up straight in the moonlight, and Birdie bent to take it in his mouth. Julian wanted him to do it, of course he did, his whole body yearned for it, but instead, he took his hand and pushed Birdie’s head away.

“No,” said Julian.

Birdie looked up at him, confused.

“You’ll like it,” he said. “Don'tcha want me to? I’m good,” he added with a bit of his usual saucy grin.

Julian hauled on his shoulders until they were lying, nose to nose on Birdie’s thin pallet. “Of course I do,” he said, looking the other boy in the eye. “But not now.”

“Why not now?” asked Birdie huskily, his eyes wide and boring into Julian.

“Because you’re upset.”

“Nah,” Birdie said. “Not really.” His eyes were deep blank pools.

“Yes you are,” said Julian. “That man upset you. And there’s no point denying it,” he added. “I can tell.”

Birdie sighed and laid his head on Julian’s shoulder. “He’s Cricket’s Da,” he said, to the wall.

“I figured,” said Julian softly.

“He just…..up and left us,” Birdie said, and Julian could tell by his voice he was close to tears. “Never left a note, or nothing. He was just…. Gone. Never came back, never sent word. Ma was heartbroke. She was so happy with him. And now…...well, you see how she is now. And me…..I was just a little kid. I thought of him as my Da, too….”

Julian held him while he cried, while his young body shook with sobs, until Julian’s shoulder was wet with his tears. When Birdie’s tears were spent, Julian kissed him and kissed him, kissed his shoulders, his back, his belly and finally, he took Birdie’s cock in his mouth. It was strange, but he wanted to do it and he liked it. He liked the smell of Birdie’s crotch, the sweet animal muskiness of him. He liked the power he had, to make Birdie moan and cry out, and grab his hair in fistfuls, and arch against him. “ _I’m a Birdie tamer,”_ Julian thought. _”I can tame him with my mouth.”_

He liked being able to do for Birdie what he had been forced to do, unwillingly, for so many others.

“Never thought anyone would do that for me,” Birdie sighed afterwards, as he curled up in Julian’s arms.

“What’re you going to do with the key? Julian asked him. “You going to give it to Cricket?”

“Nah,“ said Birdie sleepily. ”Not now. It’ll just…...mix her up. I’ll just……..” and he yawned hugely, “hang onto it for her.”

“What’s it for?” wondered Julian, aloud. But Birdie’s breathing had deepened and he was asleep.


	13. Changes Afoot

When viewed from outside, Isinglass is a city of many towers and spires, rising like a shimmering pearl from the cleft in the Caladrian Mountains into which it was built. The city perches there, along the Lake of Mirrors, atop high impassable cliffs that look out over the misty plains of Glian. But once inside its walls, it is a city of steep, narrow streets that wind in and around the tall buildings like a maze. It is a city of streets that end in stairways leading to higher streets, of elegant footbridges, sweeping upward and connecting one neighborhood of tall spired buildings to another. It is a city of small cafes and tiny shops, of balconies so intricately crafted that they seem to be floating on air, and lovely miniature gardens tucked into unexpected places. Many of the windows are formed in the shape of crescent moons or sunbursts or stars, for Isinglass was built in the golden age, when beauty and artistry were prized above all else.

In the dark of night, Loaldo hurried through the sleeping city. He must go alone to the Brotherhood meeting, along a predetermined and surreptitious route. Occasionally, a yellow light shone from a high window in the shape of a crescent, or a star, or a sunburst. The moon shimmered and glowed on the spires and towers above him, roofed in mica, but the cobbled streets below were in shadow. Loaldo went on as quietly as he could, wrapped in a black cloak, his face cast in shadow by a dark hood. A few streets over, in the University district, all was still brightly lit. Young people were out and about, going drunkenly, noisily, home from the pubs and cafes. Loaldo kept his distance from them, and kept his head down.

He approached the Ninth Hill from the back, climbing upward through a warren of ever poorer streets, in the shadow of the stone citadel that loomed above them. Unlike the rest of Isinglass, this massive fortress, built of yellow sandstone, did not shine and shimmer with mica, for it was older, much older than the rest of the city. Loaldo went on until he came to a row of shacks that backed onto the walls of the citadel itself. He slipped behind a roughly built wooden fence, and felt his way along the narrow space between the fence and the stone wall. He came to a door, cut into the stone. The door had neither handle nor lock. Loaldo whispered a spell, and the stone door slid open, revealing a dark passage.

Loaldo did not go up, to where the king’s palace stood, glimmering with mica, newly built, at the center of the citadel. Instead he went down, inside the thick ancient sandstone walls, where a narrow tunnel led into the earth itself.

The Brotherhood met in the Archive, an ancient library the heart of the citadel, deep underground. It was filled with scrolls and tomes of history,science, medicine and magic. This secret room held the accumulated wisdom and knowledge of many generations. The passage leading to it was dry and sandy, built of the stone of the mountains themselves, and littered with the skeletons of small animals. Loaldo went along the dimly lit passage swiftly. He was, as usual, nearly late, but that had come to be recognized as part of his style. Of all the members of the Brotherhood, he was closest to being a rebel, an outlier.

It was a fine line he was walking, because the Brotherhood was an organization that valued discipline and loyalty above all other qualities.

There were several checkpoints along the narrow, sandy passage, places where only a true Brotherhood member could pass. Loaldo went through them all, almost without pause. He spoke the right passwords, stopped and slashed his thumb with a silver knife and gave blood to a stained dark stone. A small genie popped up in a whirlwind of dust and studied his irises intently and, with a bow, allowed him to pass. At last he slipped into his seat, beside Caspar, who gave him a disapproving grimace. Somewhere, high above them, the citadel clock tower struck the midnight hour and the stones of the hidden chamber reverberated with the deep tones of the enormous iron bell.

The Brotherhood meeting could begin.

They were all seated about a round table, the symbol of their Brotherhood, their equality and loyalty to each other. The dark grained wood of the table was inlaid with a sunburst of pale yellow stone. They were the Brotherhood of the Sun. One and all, man and woman, they wore a sunburst clasp at their necks, as Loaldo did.

One chair in the circle had been altered, to sit a little higher, with a bit more space, separating that seat from the others around it. A rising sun was carved in the back of that chair, so that it framed the head of the person seated upon it.

That seat was occupied by Ratty.

Ratty was small and slight, fine boned, impeccably dressed, as always, his tall silk hat covering what Loaldo knew lay beneath - the rodent’s ears, carefully hidden, always, beneath one elaborate headpiece or another. Ratty’s face was intelligent and piercing. His eyes, ever on the move, peered out from under the hat. He gave the impression of one who would not be there long, who would play his hand and scurry away, leaving lost opportunities in his wake.

Ratty was a gambler, always assessing the table, always playing the odds.

To Ratty’s right sat Zosimos Bloodwood, the high priest of the church, impassive in his red robes, a satisfied smirk on his face. To his left sat Phineas, Loaldo’s own father. He too, appeared calm, but Loaldo sensed his unease. Phineas Thorne did not like Ratty, or trust him. His reappearance complicated the situation for their family. They must be especially vigilant in his presence.

“Now that we are all here,” said Ratty, with a slight raising of his eyebrow at Loaldo, “we can begin.”

Ratty got up from his sunburst chair and turned to the east, raising his clenched fist. Every person seated around the table, man and woman, stood and imitated him. “All hail the Brotherhood,” they intoned as one.

“Loyalty always,” Ratty chanted, his fist still raised, his eyes closed.

“Loyalty always,” chanted the assembled.

“Loyalty above all else,” Ratty intoned.

“Loyalty above all else,” answered the assembled Brotherhood.

“Loyalty unto death!” Ratty chanted, his voice rising.

“Loyalty unto death!” Loaldo standing, first clenched, raised his voice with the others.

“Loyalty, above all, to the Eldest!” Ratty's voice had reached a feverish pitch.

“Loyalty, above all to the Eldest!”

“In the name of Aldebaran and the sun itself!” Ratty cried, and he took his clenched fist, placed it over his heart, and crossed his other arm over it.

“In the name of Aldebaran and the sun itself!” everyone shouted, crossing their arms, as Ratty had done.

Their voices echoed in the ancient chamber. The fire in the hearth crackled. Loaldo opened his eyes and looked around. It was a beautiful room, the books lining the circular walls seemed to whisper with their knowledge and power, the lighting was low and inviting, the sparse furnishings made of dark wood, added an atmosphere of sombre gravity.

There was a general shuffling as the members of the Brotherhood took their seats. Loaldo watched as Ratty tucked his tail neatly behind him before he sat.

“I have returned,” Ratty announced, “for a reason. The Eldest has requested that I take a more active role.”

There was a murmur of cautious welcomes. Ratty stroked his pointed chin with his long elegant fingers. His nails were manicured to sharp points.

“Change is afoot,” said Ratty. “It has been kept a secret, but the king is ill. It is unlikely that he will live much longer.”

This announcement was met with a profound, shocked silence.

“It is time to act,” declared Ratty. “The opportunity is now. The King is failing, the Council and the Assembly are weak and divided.”

Again, a murmur among the group seated at the round table.

“If we act judiciously,” Ratty said, “all obstacles before us can be overcome. We can seize all the reins of power, and Tellurium will be truly ours at last!”

Phineas shifted in his seat, and spoke cautiously. “How does the Eldest wish us to proceed?”

Ratty smiled at him, a smirk on his narrow pointed face. “Oh my dear Phineas,” he said, his voice icy and condescending. “It has already begun.”

********

Giddeon had taken to saving a little of his breakfast, knowing that Jupiter would probably come round, and be hungry. It was simple food, tea and porridge, with some of his home made preserves- currant or plum. The blackberry, his favorite, was gone until the fall, when the heavy dark berries ripened, and he would make more.

Today he took his breakfast at the small iron table that sat under the plum trees. It was a glorious midsummer day - the garden was a riot of green, the birds busy and twittering among the dense canopy above him. But Giddeon felt on edge - the full moon was due that night, which meant he had a bad day to look forward to - restless and uncomfortable, as the beast within him began to stir.

Then he spotted a dark head, a slender figure, slipping through the bushes in the back.

“Hello,” said Giddeon, to Jupiter. “Hungry? There’s some porridge if you like.”

Jupiter nodded, and treated him to one of her rare smiles. She was a quiet child, serious and watchful.

He dished her up some porridge, and felt his jangled nerves settling down as he watched her eat.

********

 It was a hot day, and up on the high pasture all was still in the summer sunshine. The goats had eaten their fill of the good green grass and were sitting together, lazy and contented, in the shade of an ancient elm that grew, lone and magnificent in the center of the field, its two massive arms reaching into the sky. Its leaves hung limp and motionless in the still air. Julian had been flying a kite earlier, a new creation he had brought up to the pasture to test. He had fashioned it in the shape of an eagle with shimmering wings in fantastic colors - reds, purples, oranges, gold. Eventually, he had grown tired of calling a wind for it to fly on. He had eaten his lunch and now he lay dozing beside the goats, listening to the contented buzzing of the bees among the sweet meadow flowers.

He wondered what Birdie and Cricket were up to on this hot summer day. Perhaps he would bring the goats down from the high pasture a little early, tether them by the house and go dig up Birdie. And just as he was drifting off to sleep, imagining Birdie leaning into him, strong shoulders and warm lips, he was startled by a high sharp squawk from above.

He looked up to see Shadow approaching rapidly. He stretched out his hand and the falcon landed gracefully on it. Shadow was a beautiful bird, powerful and compact, with speckled black and white feathers, a curved yellow beak and fierce yellow eyes. Julian was very glad to see him, but he clearly wanted something. He flapped his wings impatiently and squawked again.

“What is it, Shadow?” he asked, scratching him between the eyes.

“Birdie,” he squawked “Soldiers.” He took off into the air towards the river, towards Birdie and Cricket’s house. Julian followed his flight with his eyes and saw a thin plume of dark smoke, rising into the blue sky. His heart dropping to his stomach, Julian raced off behind the falcon.

********

Julian met Birdie and Cricket on the road from the village. They were running up the hill, scratched and battered, covered in soot.They stopped when they saw him, too winded, for the moment to go on.

“Brotherhood troops,” Birdie gasped. “They were after Cricket a’course. Mum…...” Birdie drew back his head and spat on the ground. “She was ready to hand her over, wasn’t she?”

“What happened?” asked Julian. “Did they do anything?”

“Nah,” Cricket grinned at him. “They tried. Got a bit of a hot foot for it.”

“She set the house afire,” said Birdie.

“She did what?”

“Twasn’t that hard,” Cricket said, with satisfaction. She looked triumphant, though her face was smeared with soot. “I wasn’t going to let them take me upstairs.”

Julian just stood there in the trail and shook his head.

“This is it,” said Birdie. “I knew it would come to this. We’re leaving. Going on the road. The soldiers are on the rampage in the village anyway. Won’t be much left by the time they’re finished with it.”

Indeed, Julian saw several plumes of smoke rising from the direction of the village, as if more houses had been set aflame.

“They’re conscripting, too,” said Birdie glumly. “Not much choice about it. They conscript you right there and then you’re working for the Brotherhood. You coming with?” he added, looking at Julian.

“Yes,” said Julian without hesitation. “Of course I am. I already told you. Let’s go.” He started heading back up the trail, into the hills towards Calliope’s cottage.

“Where’re we going?” asked Birdie, pulling Cricket by the hand and following after him.

“To say goodbye to Calliope, and get some food and blankets. C’mon.” Julian broke into a run. Birdie and Cricket, who had caught their breath, hurried behind him. Shadow, cawing anxiously led the way through the trees.

********

  
When they got up the trail, sweating and breathless, they found Calliope standing at the door of the cottage, hands on her hips, watching the curls of smoke rise from the village below. When she saw the state of them she turned into the cottage and started packing.

“Go, you three,” she said. “The village isn’t safe for you any more. Go to Giddeon if you can get there. He’s with the Resistance. He’ll know how to keep you safe.” She opened hidden panel in the wall beside her bed and rummaged in the secret cupboard. She found the old Grimoire, that ancient book, and handed it to Julian. “Give him this.”

Julian shied away from touching the Grimoire, remembering how it had once stung his hands and Calliope smiled at him. “It won’t hurt you now,” she said. “I am giving it over to you for safekeeping.” Julian took the book gingerly.

“It is very old,” she told him. “It contains much wisdom, but it can be dangerous if it falls into the wrong hands. The Brotherhood must not get it, at any cost….” she looked at Julian searchingly. “Do you understand?”

“But Calliope, how did you….?”

“I’m sorry Julian. I’ve no time to explain. The soldiers will be here soon, you must flee. You’re of an age to be conscripted, both of you, and I’ll not have you pressed into their service. Cricket’s not safe here either. Brotherhood soldiers on the rampage aren’t likely to respect the virtue of a young girl. I’ll put them off here as long as I can but you must go now.” As she spoke she moved about the small room, the room that was the only home Julian had ever known. She was packing food in a sack, warm clothing, a water flask. She tucked in the bottle containing Julian’s potion, the one that Giddeon had made for him. Julian ran into his room to collect his few possessions - his knife, his bow, his winter cloak. Calliope thrust the bag with the food and the Grimoire into his hands and he flung it over his shoulder.

“If anything has happened to Giddeon, seek out Loaldo Thorne in the city. He can also be trusted.”

“The city?”

Calliope nodded “Isinglass,” she said. “Loaldo Thorne. Can you remember that name? He’s well known.” Julian nodded. She looked into Julian’s eyes and her own were suddenly flooded with tears. She held both his hands, and recited a spell of safety. Julian felt a burning in his wrist and a rune appeared there, magically burned into his skin.

Calliope went to the cupboard and pulled out the old wolfskin - the same one Julian had been wrapped in as a babe. She put it around Cricket’s thin shoulders. “You’ll be glad of this,” she said. She took Cricket’s face in both her hands and looked into her pale green eyes a long moment. She kissed her forehead. “Take care of the boys,” she whispered to her and murmured an incantation and Cricket also had a rune of protection burned in her wrist.

She picked up the tin guitar from the corner where it stood and handed it to Birdie. She held him close, and said her incantation one final time, and Birdie grinned and grabbed his wrist.

She reached under her collar and pulled out the golden key she had worn as long as Julian could remember. The key to the Grimoire. She hung it around Julian’s neck, and tucked it deep into his shirt.

“Go in safety, my children,” she said. “Look out for each other. I will seek you if I can. Now go.”

She enfolded the three of them in a final hug and she pushed them out the back door, towards the cover of the woods.


	14. Knackerman

Loaldo spent the next week in Isinglass, wishing to leave, but knowing he could not. The full moon came and went and he fretted at the thought of Giddeon, alone, with no one to care for him, but there was nothing he could do. Events in the capitol were evolving rapidly - the King took to his bed, his illness no longer a secret, but a source of public worry and fear. In the churches and cathedrals, special prayer services were held, though the priests and bishops whispered to each other that perhaps a new order was coming, when the Brotherhood could at last take complete control, and the church would rule with the authority it had long sought. The Ice King, hearing word that the King of Tellurium was failing, increased his raids and attacks on the northern border. In the Star Chamber, the Council and the Assembly bickered and argued. Politicians gave impressive speeches. They grew red in the face, pounded the diadem with their wigs askew, but little was decided.

As the King had no son his heir was his nephew, Brentano, five years old, and held closely guarded in the Blue Palace by his mother, the princess Iris. The Brotherhood met in the Library every night. Loaldo suffered through these meetings. He was bored, and more restless than ever, but he knew the information he was gathering would be priceless to the Resistance, and he could not justify leaving. The Brotherhood viewed the King’s illness, and the power vacuum it created, as an opportunity to close ranks, and seize complete control of Tellurium at last.

The days were filled with family obligations, or merchants and shippers guild meetings. They too were trying to figure out how to respond to the crisis. He spent his spare time when he was not in one meeting or another exercising in the gymnasium or running on the trail that wound out of the city along the shore of the Lake of Mirrors, as he had done when he was a youth. He saw many beautiful men at the gymnasium, but they held little attraction for him. Giddeon had done this to him, he mused, wryly. His thoughts were focused on Giddeon, and getting back to him. The summer days were breezy and pleasant, the lake reflected a blue sky, dotted with fluffy clouds, as well as the towers and spires of Isinglass itself. Inside the city walls, however, the usually festive summmer atmosphere was absent. All stood about anxiously waiting for news of the King, of the border, of the Brotherhood. It was as if the whole huge glittering city was holding its breath.

********

  
The great Fish River which connects Isinglass to the rest of Tellurium has its origin in the Lake of Mirrors which lies, silvery and placid, beside that great city. The river is rough, but navigable, and is a lifeline between the fortress- like city, tucked high in the Caldrian mountains, and the nation it rules. At the mouth of the river are the docks and warehouses, where goods from all over Tellurium are unloaded and stored. The mouth of the river is outside the city walls, and the docks are surrounded by a neighborhood of slums, where the streets are an unpaved mire of mud for much of the year. The washing of the many families struggling to eke out a living is hung above the muddy streets like the sails of a great ship. The urchins are skinny in this neighborhood and the rats are fat with red eyes and long whiskers.

On a sultry summer evening, threatening a storm, Loaldo found himself standing at a seedy bar beside the river. The Windmaker’s Hall, it was called, and it catered to those who had that particular kind of magic. The air in the Hall was hot and close, the countertop sticky. He was nervous, and sweating, and drinking a bit too much, and growing impatient, for the person he awaited was extremely late.

At last, fed up with waiting, and afraid that his contact would fail to show completely he got up from his perch at the bar. He stretched and went out back and pissed in the foul smelling trench that served as a privy. On his way back he looked in at the darkened slit parlor toward the back, where the sweet smelling resin was smoked in small ceramic pipes. Loaldo looked over the addicts sitting or lying on low cushions, in a state of bliss, in the stuffy, smoky, room, but he saw no one he recognized. When he went back to the bar, however, the seat he had vacated was occupied by a portly sailor with a red scruffy beard and unkempt hair that stuck out around his head like a halo. At his feet, a mangey one eyed dog panted.

Loaldo went and stood beside the man.

“Buy you a drink?” Loaldo offered.

“Yes, please, sir,” the sailor replied.

He was neither old nor young. He was fair skinned and doughy, sweating profusely in the summer heat. His face grew steadily redder as he drank down the ales that Loaldo bought him in quick succession. Then he declared he was hungry, and promptly downed the two orders of fried fish that Loaldo ordered for him. He fed the bones to the dog, who crunched them hungrily. At last, his belly presumably filled, he got up, belched loudly. He wove his way unsteadily out of the Windmaker’s Hall and into the dank, smelly street with the dog at his heels. Loaldo followed behind them both.

They made their way down to the waterfront and out to the end of the quay, which stank of old fish and tar. The clouds crowded low over the lake, which was still as glass. They sat down on some coils of rope. Thunder rumbled in the distance. A storm was coming.

“Knackerman,” said Loaldo, keeping his voice low.

“Mr Thorne, sir.”

“Going down the river in the morning?”

“Yessir,” Knackerman replied. There was an unctuous quality to his voice that Loaldo found distasteful.

“You’ll be able to make contact with the Galwyn cell?”

“Indeed, sir,” said Knackerman, and he belched again. Loaldo hoped that he was not too drunk to remember their conversation. But then, Knackerman seemed like a man who could hold his ale. “What news, sir?” the large man asked. The dog whimpered, and Knackerman scratched him behind the ears.

Loaldo looked him over, taking his measure. He did not like this slovenly man, did not trust him, but Keziah Knackerman was a long standing member of the resistance, and was considered reliable by the other members of the underground. Loaldo, who had been away for years, and only recently returned to the fold, had little choice but to use him as a messenger, as he had been instructed to do. Knackerman had been carrying messages back and forth along the river between Galwyn and Isinglass for years.

“The King is failing,” Loaldo said now.

“That’s no secret,” Knackerman said. “Everyone in Isinglass knows about that.”

“The Brotherhood views it as an opportunity,” Loaldo said. “If the King dies, then it will be years before Brentano is old enough to rule. His uncle, the King’s younger brother, will likely be named regent.”

“And……?”

“The Brotherhood is trying to get my father named regent instead.”

“Your father?”

Loaldo nodded glumly. “Phineas Thorne,” he said. “Not a bad choice, really. My father is a clever man. And he is loyal to the Brotherhood beyond question. With him as regent the country would be under their complete control.”

Knackerman drew a pipe from inside his stained vest. He lit it and drew deeply. The thunder rumbled louder.

Knackerman exhaled , and a cloud of pungent tobacco smoke hung in the air. “What else?” he asked.

“Ratty’s back.”

“That ain’t no secret, neither,” said Knackeman. “He’s been parading all over town, with his rat’s tail and his top hat. I saw him myself in the market square this mornin’.”

“The Brotherhood Army is moving on the Clay Country,” said Loaldo. "Once the Clay Country is properly suppressed, Galwyn won’t be far behind.”

“All right,”said Knackeman.

“War is coming.,” said Loaldo. The Brotherhood Army is preparing to attack the Ice King as soon as they have a plausible excuse. They’re conscripting by force in the countryside, stockpiling stores, establishing supply lines. They’re negotiating with the weremen of the north as well, hoping to form an alliance.”

Knackerman scratched his belly and shook his head. “Not good,” he muttered.

“They’re increasing production in the mercury mines. Cinnabar is on lock down - they have the miners working day and night.”

“You don’t think......?” said Knackerman and he spat on the ground.

“Yes, I do think,” said Loaldo. “Its obvious, isn’t it? It worked in the last war, after all. They never would have won without…....Them.”

“Them,” Knackeman echoed.

The two men sat and stared at the lightning flickering across the lowering sky.

“Are they talking about it?” Knackeman asked. “Using Them? In their meetings?”

“No,” replied Loaldo. “Not yet.”

And though the night was oppressively warm, Loaldo shuddered as he thought of that slave army of the quicksilver eaters, marching forward, steady and unstoppable, with their shimmering skin and unseeing silver eyes. The No Souls Army. Empty Heads they had called them, in the last war. Blankies.

Of course, in that conflict they had been on the same side.

This time, it would be different.

“That it?” Knackerman asked at last.

“For now,” Loaldo replied.

Knackerman heaved his great bulk up off the coil of rope Lightning flashed across the sky, and for a moment Loaldo saw the man lit up in vivid detail, the rolls of fat above his belt, his thick legs, his flyaway beard and hair. Knackerman went to the edge of the quay and pissed, his stream hitting the water with a loud splash in the still air. The thunder rumbled louder.

“Storm’s about to break,” said Knackerman. “I’d seek shelter if I was you.”

“You’ll warn them?” Loaldo asked anxiously, thinking of Giddeon. “You’ll warn them, in Galwyn, that the Brotherhood will move soon? You’ll warn them to be careful?”

Knackerman gave Loaldo a shrewd, appraising look.

“A course, sir,” he said.

His dog whimpered at his side, and Knackerman gave it a kick. Without a farewell he loped up the deserted dock, to where his barge lay, a hulking mass.

Loaldo was halfway up the quay when the skies opened, and he was drenched in a pouring rain. He ran toward the grimy streets, that were rapidly turning into a mire of mud. From there, he hurried up into the city proper, and to the shelter of taxi stand, where a small overhang was built for the comfort of those who could afford to hire a horse and driver.

And there, waiting out the storm, to his dismay, was Saskia.

“Hello Loaldo,” she said cooly. He was struck again by how beautiful and aristocratic she looked. He kissed her hand and felt suddenly, horribly, self conscious and embarrassed. He knew she would want an answer, and he had none for her.

“You have been well?” she asked formally, her gaze piercing.

“I ...er ...yes,” stammered Loaldo. “Well.”

“And Giddeon?” she asked. “I trust he is also well.”

“Yes,” said Loaldo, limply. “Also well. And...and you?”

“Fine,” she said. “Quite well, I assure you. I am in town to visit my grandmother, and do a bit of shopping. The rain, sadly, has caught me here.”

“I…..Can I fetch you a cab?” asked Loaldo, looking about. There was a long queue, unfortunately, because of the rain. He was trying to be gallant, but he felt stupid. He was quite sure Saskia was capable of fetching her own cab.

Saskia looked out beyond the awning. The summer storm had stopped, as suddenly as it had begun. The evening air had turned cool and fresh.

“I am in no great hurry,” she said, taking Loaldo’s arm. “Shall we walk?”

*********

They strolled, arm in arm, through the winding cobbled streets to the lake. The clouds had parted, and the waning moon lit up the calm waters like a smooth silver mirror. The towers and turrets of Isinglass, in all their improbable beauty, were reflected on the glassy surface of the lake.

The walked along the promenade and stopped in at a small cafe. It had a patio lit up with hundreds of tiny lanterns that sparkled and reflected off the water. Loaldo bought them a bottle of wine, and they sat at a round white table, looking out at the view.

“I have not heard from you,” Saskia remarked, once Loaldo had poured the wine. She took a sip from her glass and smiled with pleasure. It was a Chatterling red, a good vintage.

Loaldo sipped from his own glass, and could not meet her gaze.

“I…..I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I.….I meant to contact you.”

“Have you spoken with Giddeon?” she asked.

“No,” Loaldo admitted.

“And why not, pray tell?”

Loaldo forced himself to meet her cool grey eyes. “I…. I was afraid.”

“Afraid?” said Saskia. Loaldo could sense her impatience. “Afraid of what? Do tell me.”

“I was afraid that he would be…..upset,” Loaldo blurted out.

“Upset?

“Yes,” Loaldo said. He felt irritated. Surely Saskia could see that this was an extremely delicate matter. His anxiety and embarrassment flared, suddenly, to anger. The tension that had been building under his skin these many weeks was about to burst. “Giddeon is likely to feel threatened by our marrying, don’t you think?” he said, angrily.

“I don’t see why,” said Saskia, calmly. “As I explained earlier, I have no romantic interest in you at all. It is purely a marriage of convenience.”

“Well,” said Loaldo. “He’s not likely to see it that way.”

Saskia shrugged. She let her breath out in an impatient little sigh.

“What about your Pippa then?” Loaldo asked, hotly. “How does she feel about this marriage of convenience?”

For the first time a shadow of uncertainty crossed Saskia’s face. Her high forehead wrinkled with worry. “She is willing to tolerate it, if it means a child for us,” she said stiffly.

“I won’t agree to anything without Giddeon’s consent,” said Loaldo, his voice sounding harsher, angrier, than he meant it to. “I love him. I won’t risk that, not for anything.”

“Have you told him that?” asked Saskia lightly.

Loaldo looked at the ground again. “I....I’m not sure that I have,” he muttered.

Saskia took another sip of her wine, then placed a cool, long finger on Loaldo’s lips. “I think, cousin,” she said softly, “that sometimes you are not very brave.”

********

Julian, Birdie and Cricket hurried through the long hot afternoon, not daring to stop to rest or slow their pace, afraid that the Brotherhood soldiers might be on their heels. A summer breeze carried the smell of smoke from the burning village behind them, adding to their sense of danger and urgency. The sack Calliope had packed for them was heavy, and they took turns carrying it, with the edge of the Grimoire digging into their shoulder blades. The wolfskin and the winter cloak were hot and awkward to carry, but they knew they would be glad of them later.

At last the long hot afternoon faded to evening and they slowed their pace. They stopped to drink from the water flask. Cricket used her maker’s magic to fashion the cloak and the wolfskin into makeshift packs, and they distributed the contents of the sack among the three of them. After that they went along more easily.

A summer mist rose from the distant river. Darkness fell properly and the waning moon lit their way. The owls were calling to each other through the woods, their voices harsh and haunting. They started looking around for a place to camp for the night. They came to a rocky ledge that jutted out over a dry sandy spot. It looked like it wouldn’t be too bad to sleep on. They didn’t dare make a fire but they found chewy seed bread and cheese and apples that Calliope had packed for them in the sack. They ate and watched the moon setting, huge and yellow in the western sky. They didn’t talk much. There didn’t seem to be anything to say.

Then Julian heard a snuffling sound. He looked over and Cricket was crying into her sleeve, her thin shoulders shaking. Birdie hitched over and put an arm around her.

“It’s all right, Crick,” he said softly.

She looked up at him. “Do ya think Ma’s all right?” she asked her brother.

“Dunno,” he said. “Doesn’t matter anyway. If she’s not there ain’t a thing we can do about it. Don’t know why you even care, anyway. She was about to just turn you over to them.”

“She’s still our Ma,” said Cricket, but she had stopped crying.

“I’m worried about Calliope,” Julian said. Shadow, who had followed along after them all day, was perched on his shoulder, his head under his wing. Julian smoothed his sleek feathers absently. “If the soldiers are looking for witches, well…. Everyone knows what she is. Anything could have happened…..“ And he shuddered.

“Calliope can take care of herself, I reckon,” said Birdie stoutly. “A bunch of Brotherhood soldiers aren’t going to get the best of her.”

They sat there, silently, and watched the moon set.

“It’s what we always said we’d do,” said Birdie. Julian knew he meant to sound brave, but his voice sounded hollow in the quiet night. “And now we’re on the road, making our way. We’re going to have all sorts of adventures. It’s going to be grand.”

The moon slipped below the horizon and then it was very dark. There was a chill in the air, even though it was summer. They laid Julian’s cloak on the ground and curled together, the three of them, in a kind of nest, with the wolfskin on top and they slept, an exhausted dreamless sleep. Shadow kept watch perched on a branch above them. In the middle of the night they were woken by wolves, calling to each other in the distant hills, but the wolves did not come close, and they snuggled into their nest again and slept until morning.


	15. Turtle Soup

They made their way south, avoiding the river, with its risks of soldiers and spies. They kept it in view, however, a distant glimmer of silver on their left hand side. They were in no great hurry. The days were sunny and hot. When the nights grew chilly, they had each other for warmth, snuggling together under the wolfskin like a litter of puppies. After a few nights they felt secure enough to dare a campfire, which Birdie lit easily, using his fire magic. They tuned the tin guitar and sang together, bravely, under the stars, their voices rising with the sparks from the campfire into the starry sky, drowning out the spooky hooting of the owls or the occasional howl of the wolves. And when they tired of singing Birdie would play for them, his fingers coaxing sweet melodies and heart wrenching harmonies from the strings as the other two drifted off to sleep.

They descended out of the high plateau of their home and down into the valleys of the Chatterling country. They stuck to the woods and wastelands, avoiding the human settlements, where the ruddy, well fed Chatterlings went about their business. Occasionally they got a ride on a farm cart, and heard the news that the Brotherhood soldiers had moved into the region in earnest, and that they were imposing new rules, new taxes, new prohibitions. The only magic that was being allowed was to be performed by state sponsored mages, trained in the  Akadamy of Magicks in Isinglass. Cottage witchcraft, of the kind that Calliope performed, was being strictly forbidden, and all the village healers for miles around were being rooted out, forced to renounce their craft, their spells and potions, or pay the consequences.

They ran out of food on the the third day. After that they were hungry all the time. A growling in their bellies, a weird lightness in their heads. It reminded Julian of the one time they had been drunk, him and Birdie, last winter at the Bear Festival, when they’d gone around snatching tastes from the flagons of the revelers, who were too far gone to notice, or to care.

They ate what they could find. They knew how to get by. There were wild onions and nettles aplenty in the woods.They made a soup that wasn’t too bad, though it would have been far better with butter and salt. There were service berries in the forest, but eating too many gave them stomach aches. There were tiny wild strawberries in the meadows. They tasted wonderful, but they weren't very filling, and eating them just made everyone hungrier. They fished in the little sparkling streams that ran down to the river, and occasionally, they caught a flashing silvery trout, and had a feast. They had Julian’s bow. Birdie took charge of it, as he was the best shot, and they kept their eyes and ears open for any game as they moved through the woods. The rabbits and squirrels they spotted were wary however, and they had no luck.

One night Birdie snuck into a henhouse attached to a sleeping farmstead, and came away with a handful of eggs. “I would have tooken the hen,” he said, bitterly, rubbing his arm where an ugly red scratch was swelling up. “But she was a mean old biddy and started a-squawking and flew to the rafters.”

“Aw, she was probably tough anyway,“ said Julian. He made a poultice of spider webs and plantain leaves for Birdie’s scratched arm, as he had seen Calliope do . He didn’t know the incantation she used to prevent infection, however, and they all watched Birdie’s arm anxiously for several days as it swelled and turned an angry purple red, then gradually improved.

One afternoon they came on a marshy area, by a stream where the frogs were large and plentiful. They had a net they’d made. They had chewed dried old thistle fibers, braided them into a kind of twine and then woven them into a mesh. They’d made a hoop out of a bendy willow sapling, tied to a stout pole. Julian’s kite maker hands were clever at such things, and Cricket reinforced it all with her maker’s magic. They hadn't caught anything with it yet.

“Shh...:” Birdie shushed them, though there was no need. Frog’s legs were poor food, but they all three realized they were the best chance of a meal they’d have that day.

Silent as a cat, Birdie approached the pond, net in hand. Julian counted silently - there were at least twenty frogs in the little swamp ahead of them. He checked the sun, but Birdie had already thought of that, and positioned himself so he would cast no shadow over his prey.

Birdie stood above the pond, barely breathing, muscles tensed, the sinews standing out in his neck. His curls glinted in the golden afternoon sunshine.

And then, he pounced.

The little pond fairly exploded. There was a loud splash as the net hit the water. The frogs were not quiet. Their squeaks rang loud in the still woodland as they splashed off in every direction. Birdie was frantic with the net - swirling it in the shallow water to catch as many of the wriggling amphibians as he could before they escaped. When he held up the net it was writhing with at least ten of the unfortunate frogs. Birdie was laughing and dripping water, and so beautiful that for a moment Julian forgot to breathe.

“Look,” said Cricket quietly, and pointed to a sunny tuft of weeds by the shore of the pond where a large turtle sat basking, oblivious to the commotion just a little way away.

“Hello…..mother,” Birdie said softly. He emptied the squirming frogs into Julian’s shirt. “Don’t let them get away,” he whispered, and started stalking the turtle.

The turtle was stock still as Birdie moved in on it, quiet as quiet. Julian held his breath and watched him, with the mass of frogs, captured in his shirt, wriggling against his chest.

The net sliced through the air, and in one swift motion, Birdie had the turtle. But he was a big fellow, and in spite of the magical reinforcements they had placed on the net, he broke through the delicate mesh they had woven. He hit the water with a loud splash.

“No you don’t!” yelled Cricket. In three quick strides she was at the edge of the pond. She lunged for the turtle where he was still struggling to free himself from the remnants of their net. She stood up, completely soaked, dripping water and grinning triumphantly, the huge ancient looking turtle clutched to her chest.

“Turtle soup, anyone?” she asked. The turtle stretched out its scaly head, opened its huge mouth and bit her on the ear.

********

They made a rich soup of the turtle and the frog legs, with some wild onions and arrowroot tubers that Julian dug from the soft marshy soil with his fingers. The tubers were small but tender. It was the first time any of them had been truly full in days and they sat by the fire, dazed by the warm sated feeling in their bellies, and talked quietly together. Well, Birdie mostly talked and the other two listened.

He talked of how they would go to Isinglass and make their fortune on the way, playing the tin guitar and singing songs. Cricket could make puppets for a play for the little ones. Julian could make kites to sell or trade for food or fabric or other things they would need. He’d make a lute out of the turtle shell, Birdie mused, fingering it softly. It was a large, fine shell. “I can fit on a neck with a piece of wood. Maybe you can help me, Crick. We just need some sinew,” he added. “For lute string.”

“And then what’ll happen?” asked Cricket, yawning. She was seated between Birdie and Julian, toasting her toes in the warmth of the fire, her belly so full that her eyes were growing heavy. She sighed and rested her head on Julian’s shoulder and he put an arm around her. She snuggled in, enjoying the sense of comfort and safety that she felt.

Birdie stared into the fire. His eyes had a wide faraway look, the look they got when he was lost in the yarn he was spinning.

“We’ll go from town to town,” he said, dreamily. “Word of our amazing act will travel ahead of us. In every village the crowd will be bigger. They’ll come from miles around, to see our great performance."

“What’s it to be called?” asked Julian, smiling at Birdie, half teasing, half in fondness.

Birdie closed his eyes and thought.

“We’ll call ourselves….. The Amazing Stupendous Brothers McBird.”

“Hey,” objected Julian. “I’m not a McBird.”

“Yeah, “ said Cricket. “And I’m not a brother.”

“You’re dressed like one,” said Bidie, looking her over. Cricket had chopped off her dark curls and she was dressed in a pair of Julian’s breeches, tied up with a piece of string, that she had found among their things.

“It’s a stupid name, anyway,” Julian said.

“ ‘s’not,” said Birdie defensively. He sat up straight and clenched his hands into fists.

“We’ll think of a name later,” Cricket said, trying to make peace. “What’s going to happen next?”

Birdie looked at her narrowly, but he lay back down and his hands relaxed. “Our fame will travel ahead of us,” he said, his eyes growing dreamy again. “The people will shower us with coins. We’ll pass the hat at the end of every show and it will be heavy with silver and gold. We’ll eat roast chicken and chocolate and oranges every night, and those little yellow cakes, you know…. With the frosting…..”

“Mmmm… “ said Cricket appreciatively, though she was so stuffed she wasn’t sure she could eat one of those, even if it were, impossibly, right before her. “I love those.”

“By the time we get to Isinglass we’ll be so famous the King himself will come out to greet us. They'll have a parade, and we’ll sleep in the palace and eat ridiculous foods. Peacock, and massive cakes, and puddings as big as your head. When we perform, the crowds will be so huge you won’t be able to see to the last row, and they’ll roar and clap and sing our praises.

“Then what?” asked Cricket. She was falling asleep in the warm firelight, her head on Julian’s shoulder, borne away by Birdie’s beautiful dream.

“Then there will be this beautiful princess, sitting there, by her father the King’s side, watching our performance. When she hears me play the lute, the same lute I’m going to make from this here turtle shell, she’ll fall madly in love with me. Of course, she’ll want to marry me, and I’ll go off and live in the palace and never have to work another day in my life.”

“What about Julian?” asked Cricket sleepily, “And me?”

“Why you’ll marry each other, a’course. That’s obvious,” said Birdie, lightly.

“Marry Julian?”

“Of course,” said Birdie impatiently. “Who else would you marry?”

Cricket shrugged and looked into the fire. She honestly hadn’t thought about it. “The prince, maybe?” she suggested. “The princess’s brother?”

Julian was silent, staring at the flames, but Cricket could sense the change in his mood. He was tense suddenly. His limbs were no longer loose and relaxed, but stiff.

“Nah,” said Birdie. “Better marry Julian. Then it's all in the family. Who else would really understand? About him being a wolf and all? And about him and me?”

“What about you and me?” Julian asked, and the question hung in the little clearing which was suddenly quiet. The crackling of their fire sounded very loud, in the silent woods, which had only a few moments ago been filled with their relaxed chatter.

“That we’re brothers,” Birdie said. “More than brothers. Brothers of the heart. “ And he put his fist to his chest and held it there, in a gesture of loyalty.

Cricket giggled. “If Julian’s your brother then he’s my brother as well,” she pointed out.

“Yeah, but…..You should marry Julian. It’s for the best that way. Really.”

Birdie seemed so determined on this point that it was clear that there was no arguing him out of it. They sat there, watching the fire burn down to embers, each quiet with their own thoughts. Cricket didn’t really mind the thought of marrying Julian. She loved Julian after all, loved him almost as much as she loved Birdie. She liked sitting here in the dying firelight, snuggled up against his warmth. She looked up at his face, which was somber, and very far away. There was a sadness there that she didn’t understand. She wondered what it would be like, to kiss him, but she couldn’t quite picture it. She felt a strange, unfamiliar wriggle of yearning, deep in her belly, and wondered if this was the first stirring of love.

At last the fire was just a red glow and Julian got up and went off into the woods to pee. Birdie followed him. Cricket wrapped herself in her blanket and listened as the two boys scuffled and giggled in the woods, and whispered to each other in low voices, until their breath came, fast and faster, together, as if they were running, and then they were very still. She didn’t understand this adult passion they felt for each other. It confused her. She thought that they had run off to escape all that, and yet here were Birdie and Julian, going off together every chance they could. She attributed it partly to them being older and partly to them just being boys. Men, in her experience were always the ones interested in sex. They paid for it, they fought over it, they got themselves into all sorts of trouble over it. Women put up with it, or, if they were clever, got something out of the men in exchange for it.

She rolled up in her warm blanket and thought about that strange wriggle in her belly again. She held it inside herself, like a private talisman, and soon she was asleep.

*******

Loaldo landed his airship in its usual hiding place outside of Galwyn in the early morning light. He hurried over the rocky trail to the seaside town. His anxiety over Giddeon had reached a fever pitch over the past few days and he had flown through the night to get here. The trail joined the road and within an hour he was walking up the steep cobbled streets of Galwyn toward Magic Street. It was a bright summer day and the winding streets were full of hustle and bustle. At last he arrived at the small house, set back from the busy street by a low stone wall and a shady front yard.

He went round to the back garden and there he saw Giddeon kneeling at the side of one of the beds, pulling weeds. Beside him stood a small dark haired girl, listening attentatively as he spoke in a low voice. Loaldo was too far away to hear what he said but he was reassured by the low rumble of Giddeon’s voice. He was struck by his hands, long fingered and white in the dark loamy soil. Those hands were so sure and confident as they worked, and Loaldo was reminded, piercingly, exactly why he loved Giddeon.

 _“I have to tell him_ ,” Loaldo thought, feeling a mild panic set in. “ _I have to tell him about Saskia._ ” He swallowed, hard. “ _And I have to tell him I love him._ ”

He remembered the first time he had stood art this gate - his heart filled with hope and fear - and convinced Giddeon to give him another chance.

Giddeon looked up. His face lit up with a smile of welcome and Loaldo felt the fear in his heart replaced with hope.

 _“It will be all right,_ ” he thought to himself. “ _It will have to be all right. I will make it so.”_

He strode through the gate and into the garden, which was alive with birdsong and sunlight. Giddeon’s peaceable kingdom. Home. Giddeon stood and shook the earth from his hands and the two men embraced.

“Well met, old friend,” said Giddeon.

“Well met, indeed,” replied Loaldo.

“Everything been all right here?” asked Loaldo, anxiously.

“Fine,” replied Giddeon. "And you?”

“For the moment, yeah,” said Loaldo, looking at Giddeon meaningfully.

The small girl stood beside Giddeon and looked up at Loaldo, her dark eyes wide and uncertain. The sunshine glinted off her smooth cap of black hair.

“Who’s this then?” Loaldo asked, trying to make his voice sound gentle.

“This is Jupiter,” said Giddeon. “And Jupiter, this is my friend from school, Loaldo.’’

“Pleased to meet you, Jupiter,” said Loaldo solemnly. The child’s face was so serious there was no other tone to take. 

“Pleased to meet you,” she whispered shyly.

Then she looked at Giddeon, curiously. “You went to school?” she asked.

Giddeon laughed at that, and the sound, gentle and affectionate, put all three of them at ease. “Yes I did, as a matter of fact,” he said. “A very, very long time ago. We're just about finished with the weeding,” he added. “Let’s go inside and get a cool drink, shall we?”

Jupiter nodded thoughtfully, and put her small hand in Giddeon’s large one and the three of them went into the stone house together.

********

After Jupiter left, Giddeon locked his shop and took Loaldo to the cool of his attic bedroom where they fell on each other with hunger and joy. When they were sated they lay together between the sheets and Loaldo told Giddeon all that had transpired with the Brotherhood in Isinglass. At last he roused himself and started to dress.

“I must get to the office and see to the books,” he said.

“And I must get back to the shop and the garden,” said Giddeon, but he watched Loaldo pulling on his clothes and made no move to get up himself.

“Caspar knows,” said Loaldo, sitting on the bed, heavily, to pull on his boots. He was not looking at Giddeon at all.

“Knows what?” asked Giddeon, sharply.

“About us.”

“Oh,” said Giddeon. How’d he…?”

“I think he just guessed,” said Loaldo.

“I see,” said Giddeon, and he felt the warm contentment he had felt moments before seeping away.

Loaldo shrugged. “He’s my brother. And he doesn’t miss much.”

“What should we do?”

Loaldo shrugged again. “I trust him,” he said. “Caspar has secrets of his own. He won’t betray me.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“So do I,” said Loaldo grimly. “There’s one more thing….”

Loaldo actually looked uncomfortable, and Giddeon’s heart was filled with a sudden dread.

“What?” he asked, anxiously.

“I’ll tell you later,” Loaldo said. He kissed Giddeon, briefly, and was gone, down the stairs and out the door before Giddeon could stop him.

Giddeon listened to him go. He felt as if his heart was falling away from him, an empty aching loneliness that he had hoped never to feel again. There was absolutely nothing he could do about it, though. With a sigh born of long practice, he rose, and dressed and went down the stairs to open up his shop.


	16. In Which a Green Mage Talks to a Sparrow and Julian Explains Some Things

Giddeon was a green mage, it was true, but his mother was an air mage, from a long line of air mages, a proud and free people, not much accustomed to being bound by the simple rules of gravity. She had the fortune (whether a good fortune or a bad fortune, Giddeon, their only child, was never sure) to fall in love with an earth mage, and Giddeon, with his talent for all growing things, was the result. His magic was unusual. He had only ever met a few other green mages. But he had inherited a bit of air magic from his mother as well, and part of that was an affinity for the birds.

Giddeon sat in his peaceable kingdom, but he was not at peace. He watched the birds. His supper was before him, but he did not eat it. The light was lowering. The sparrows twittered about. There was a nest of cardinals under the eaves, and he watched as the parents hurried back and forth, in the dying day, using every last moment of light to feed their babies. From the apple trees at the bottom of the yard, came the harsh caw of a blue jay. A sparrow, bolder that his mates, landed on the edge of the table where Giddeon was sitting and cocked his head.

“What can you tell me my friend?” said Giddeon, smiling at the delicate bird sadly. He tossed him a crumb from the slice of bread on his plate and the sparrow gobbled it hungrily.

“Don't be sad, wolf,” said the sparrow, looking at him steadily out of its jet black eye. “If you have love and hope then all will be well.”

“And what if my love leaves me?” Giddeon asked the bright eyed little creature.

“Then you will be very strong, and live to love again,” the bird replied sagely. “However,” he hopped up onto Giddeon’s shoulder and twittered in his ear. “I don’t think that will happen.” Then he sprang into the air and soared away.

Giddeon didn’t really know how he understood the speech of the birds, or how they understood him. The communication took place on another plane, beyond the ability of the rational mind to grasp it. Giddeon, who was otherwise a very rational person, almost painfully so, has had to accept that he will never completely understand how he can communicate with the birds. Like so many other things in his life he must ultimately accept that it is just the way things are.

Yes, he was bitten by a wolf when he was seven years old.

Yes, he prefers men to women.

Yes, he was born into a time when the choices are hard, when sides must be taken, and sacrifices made. At least if you are to stand with the righteous.

Yes, he fell in love when he was seventeen years old, and he’s never gotten over it.

That was why he sat there now, in the chill of the evening, in his garden, his refuge, that tonight felt like a trap. That was why he could not eat. He was in love with Loaldo. That was never going to change. Just as the full moon would always come, just as he knew that he would fight the Brotherhood either until they were defeated or until he was dead, he will always be in love with Loaldo. And if Loaldo choses to leave, he will be helpless. It happened once before and it nearly killed him. Now he feared, it was going to happen again.

A dank fog misted up from the sea, replacing the shining glory of the perfect summer day with a chill gloom. Giddeon could hear a buoy ringing from the point of land sticking out at the head of the harbor. Bloody Rock, it was called, because so many men had lost their lives there. He was cold, but he did not move inside, to his warm fireside, in his cozy house. The leaves of the apple trees shone weirdly green against the heavy grey sky.

At last Giddeon heard Loaldo’s step on the stone path, his hand on the gate.

When Loaldo came into the dark garden Giddeon did not know what to say. He looked at Loaldo’s profile against the grey sky, lit by the very last remnants of daylight, and he had to turn away.

Loaldo stood there for a long time, his hand on the gate, looking at Giddeon helplessly. The hostility coming from Giddeon was palpable. At last, he walked through the gate and across the garden to where Giddeon sat.

“It's not what you think,” said Loaldo, sitting down heavily in the chair opposite Giddeon. He picked up Giddeon’s roll, tore off a piece and started eating it.

It had the planned effect. Giddeon looked at him and huffed out a reluctant laugh.

“Idiot,” he muttered.

“It's not what you think,” Loaldo said again, his mouth full.

“What do I think?” asked Giddeon icily.

“Oh. I don’t know,” said Loaldo impatiently. “Some rubbish like I’ve found some pretty girl I want to go off with or I'm leaving you for another fellow.”

“That’s not it? “ asked Giddeon tensely. Loaldo had summed up his fears with remarkable accuracy.

“No,” said Loaldo, smiling at him fondly. He took up Giddeon’s hand and kissed it. He broke off another piece of the roll and ate it absently.

“I’ve had a terrible day, Loaldo.”

“I know,” said Loaldo unhappily. “I’m sorry, all right? I was an ass. I shouldn't have brought it up if I wasn't going to tell you the whole thing.”

“Loaldo tell me, already,” said Giddeon, looking at him with something close to panic in his eyes. “Tell me now, you fucker.”

“It’s just that… it isn’t easy,” said Loaldo, looking at the ground.

“Now, Loaldo!”

Loaldo looked at Giddeon as if he was making up his mind about something and then he took a deep breath in.

“Remember Saskia?” he said.

********

 

Birdie and Julian lay curled together, a warm tangle in the misty dawn light. Julian woke slowly, awareness gradually coming to his mind of Birdie’s arms around him, Birdie’s body close against his. He heard Cricket quietly moving about their campsite, stirring the ashes of the fire to life. He heard the birds singing high in the branches of the trees. He listened to the rustle of Cricket’s clothes, the clink of the tin bucket as she left their campsite to go to the creek to wash and fetch water. A root was sticking in his back. He shifted and snuggled closer to Birdie, drinking in the warmth of the other boy’s body in the early morning chill. He was just starting to drift back to sleep when he was startled awake by Cricket.

She was screaming.

Birdie shot up and out of their warm nest and ran barefoot down the path to the creek, with Julian close at his heels.

Cricket was down at the creek, screaming and screaming. When she saw Birdie and Julian she ran to them, tears streaming down her face, and Birdie caught her up on a tight hug.

“Crick…..where are you hurt?“ he asked, looking her over. Aside from some blood on her hand she appeared all right. “Didja cut your hand?”

“No I…..I went to pee, and the blood, it's just coming out of me,” said Cricket tremulously.

“But why? What’s happened? Did you hurt yourself somehow?” Birdie seemed confused but he held his sobbing sister tight against his bare chest.

“It’s okay, Crick,” said Julian gently “It's just your courses starting, I imagine.”

“What?” said Cricket. She and Birdie both looked at him blankly.

“You know, your courses,” Julian repeated. “Your monthly.”

“Monthly?” repeated Cricket.

“Yeah,” said Julian, perplexed that she didn’t understand. He’d grown up in the witch's cottage, among the chatter of women discussing all manner of problems related to the female body. He couldn't imagine not knowing about something so basic. But Birdie was also staring at him with a confused look on his face.

“Didn’t your ma explain to you about it?” asked Julian, feeling a bit out of his depth.

“No.....ooo,” said Cricket slowly, thoughtfully. At least she had stopped crying. “She didn't.”

“But _you_ know about it, don't you?” Julian asked, looking at Birdie.

Birdie shifted uncomfortably and looked at the ground. “Kind of,” he muttered.

“Kind of?” said Julian incredulously. Birdie didn’t respond.

“Well….” said Julian, taking a deep breath and looking at Cricket, who still had tears shining in her pale green eyes, “It’s okay, Crick, you’re not hurt. All girls get it, when they get to be a certain age. It's how they know they’re not having a baby.”

“A baby?” said Cricket, confused. “What does blood have to do with babies?”

“You bleed every month, till a man puts a baby in you, and then it stops. That’s how you know a baby's coming,” explained Julian patiently. He turned to Birdie again “You really don’t know about this?” he asked again. This time Birdie was recovered enough to punch him in the shoulder. Julian ignored him.

“C’mon, Crick,” said Julian gently, leading her to the stream. “Let’s get you cleaned up. We’ll find some moss or something to catch the blood. It stops after a few days. You’ll be all right.” He helped her wash the blood off her hands, and started casting about for some moss.

“It’s not…. Bad?” she asked, looking into his eyes fearfully.

“Nah, it's good,” Julian said. “All girls get it. And it means you can get married someday, and have a baby. You’d like that wouldn’t you?”

“I….I’m not sure,” said Cricket doubtfully. Julian found some soft moss and helped her fix it up inside her knickers. Birdie had started throwing stones into the creek with great concentration, making a series of loud splashing noises as they hit.

“My stomach hurts,” said Cricket, with an uncertain waver in her voice.

Julian searched among the trees until he found some black willows. He stripped some of the bark with his knife and gave it to Cricket to chew. “This’ll help,” he said. “With cramps and things. Calliope always gave it out for…...this sort of problem.” Cricket took the willow bark thankfully and chewed it, though it was very bitter.

“C’mon,” Julian said, filling their water pail and heading up the trail. “Let’s have breakfast.”

********

 

They walked all morning but by afternoon the day had grown hot and muggy and Cricket complained that her back ached and her legs felt wobbly. They stopped to fill their water flasks by a stream, and then decided to make camp early and try their luck at fishing for their supper.

There was a small bridge that crossed the clear sparkling stream and Birdie stood at the railing and dropped a fishing line, while Julian settled Cricket in the shade of some trees with a cool cloth to her forehead and some more black willow bark to chew. Then he joined Birdie on the bridge and dropped another fishing line, but it was mid afternoon, and the fish were hiding from the heat of the day in the cool shadowy places under the bank.

“They won’t start biting for a few hours at least, said Julian with frustration. His stomach growled. He was always hungry, these days.

He leaned over the railing and watched the stream go by. He sighed. The sun was bright and he was sweating. Then Birdie came up behind him. He put his arms around Julian and squeezed him around the chest. His breath was hot and fast on the back of Julian’s neck.

“Hey,” Julian said, turning around, swatting at him. But Birdie’s mood was sensual, not playful. The summer sun was beating down on them. Birdie started kissing Julian’s neck, soft and sexy in the hot sunshine, and Julian liked it, he liked it so much. Birdie pushed his shoulders around and kissed his face, his neck, his chest. That sensitive, hollow spot, below the Adam’s apple. Pushed their hips together so they were rubbing right up against each other, there on the bridge where any one passing by could see, and Julian’s breath was coming in hot gasps and he didn’t want Birdie to stop. Birdie was transported, head thrown back, eyes closed, nostrils flared. His golden skin was slick with sweat and it shone, sparkling in the sunshine, and his sweaty male smell was strong in Julian’s nose, so strong Julian almost thought he couldn’t bear it.

Julian grabbed Birdie by the hand and led him off the bridge and into the dense shade of the trees growing by the river. It was cool and dark in there, the air moist, the ground a soft bed of mouldering leaves. Birdie pushed Julian against a tree and leaned in. The rough bark dug into Julian’s back. Birdie was kissing him, kissing him and kissing him like he was never going to stop. Julian liked how Birdie sucked in his breath when Julian kissed him back, he liked Birdie gasping and moaning at his touch, golden and breathless and sweaty. He liked Birdie pushing up against him, wanting him.

Birdie’s mouth traveled down Julian’s sternum to his belly. He spent a long time kissing circles around Julian’s navel, then looked up at him with a grin. “You’re gonna like this, little bro,” he said huskily. “Got a special surprise for you.” And then before Julian even realized what was happening, Birdie’s mouth was on his cock and he was lost in the goodness of it. Nothing - nothing ever in the whole of his life had ever felt like this and he was completely transported.

After he came he lay down on the cool forest floor and Birdie lay beside him, smiling down at him.

“You like that, little bro?”

“Don’t call me that,” Julian said. He swatted at Birdie, playfully, but he felt too good to be truly annoyed. They tussled back and forth for a few minutes.

“Want me to do you?” Julian asked at last.

“Naah, I’m good,” said Birdie, casual.

“You sure?” asked Julian and he slid his hand down over Birdie’s trousers and smiled as he felt him grow hard in response to his touch. He rubbed a little and his smile broadened as Birdie sighed and closed his eyes.

Julian liked to watch Birdie’s face as he was gradually carried away by the pleasure that Julian was giving him. Julian knew by now how to touch and rub and tease so that soon Birdie was panting and moaning and thrusting against him and Julian got to watch his face, clenched tight, in a pleasure so intense it was almost like pain, and then transforming to joy and release as he came hard in Julian's hand, his hot jizz spilling onto both their bellies and making a sticky mess. But Julian didn’t mind. He liked it, here in the cool shade of the trees. Him and Birdie, making each other feel good. He just smiled and smiled at Birdie as he lay there. Finally Birdie opened his eyes and saw Julian staring at him, smiling. He turned away.

“Don’t,” Birdie said.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like…...that. You’re making a girl of me. Of both of us.”

Julian huffed out a laugh. He felt lighthearted and soft. “You’re not a girl, Birdie. Believe me. I should know.” He brushed Birdie’s springy curls back from his damp forehead, ran his hand over the fuzz curling on his chest. He kissed him, tender as a mother. “I just like the way you look.”

“Well, don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t like me like that.”

“Why not?” said Julian. He suddenly felt cold, hearing the tone of Birdie’s voice.

“No point in wanting what you can’t have,” said Birdie. He turned away and curled his back against Julian's belly and he was asleep.

Julian lay there and listened to Birdie breathing for a long time. Birdie was right, he supposed. He wanted something he couldn’t have. He wanted Birdie to love him always, and to love Birdie back. But in a way they already had it, didn’t they? They came together every few days with a heat and a joy that neither of them could deny. It had only grown deeper and more intense with time. Julian knew how he felt about Birdie. And he was pretty sure he knew how Birdie felt about him. Maybe it couldn’t last forever, but it seemed they already had it, lying there together, hidden away in the forest. This impossible, delicate, trembling thing.

They were both worn out by the heat of the day and their lovemaking. Julian pulled Birdie tight against his chest and they slept.

When they woke, the sun was low in the sky. They kissed each other lazily for a long time, in the dappled afternoon light coming through the trees. At last they roused themselves, picked the leaves out of each others hair, and went back to fishing. They caught two fat trout and brought them back to Cricket to cook for supper.

 ********

 

After supper they snuggled together, the three of them, under the wolfskin, with Cricket tucked up in between her brother and Julian.

“How’re you feeling Crick?” asked Julian solicitously.

Cricket wriggled contentedly between the two boys. “My stomach still hurts, but only a little,” she said.

“See, Crick, it’s not that bad,” said Julian, and he put an arm around her. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Tell me a story,” Cricket said with a sigh.

“Well….." began Julian. “Did you ever hear the tale of the two turtles?”

“Make it three turtles,” said Cricket.

“All right,” said Julian. “Three turtles. Once upon a time there were three turtles. They were great friends and they were always together. They had all sorts of amazing adventures together. And they would do anything for each other, those turtles. But then, one day, they had to run away.”

“Why’d they have to run away?” asked Cricket sleepily.

“Why ‘cause the corn man was after ‘em, of course,” put in Birdie. “Old Corn Man wanted to make ‘em into turtle soup. Put ‘em in the pot with all the eyeballs he’d collected off of all the kids that come into the field to steal the corn."

“Shut up!” said Julian, good naturedly. “This is my story!”

“Why then?” challenged Birdie “Why’d they run away?”

“Heron,” replied Julian. “Big old raggedy grey heron with a long bill. He was after them.”

“Mine’s better,” said Birdie.

“Yours is too scary,” retorted Julian. “A corn man story will keep us up all night.”

“Get on with it,” said Cricket, yawning. “What happened next?”

“Well," continued Julian. “The three friends put their packs on their backs and started down the road……”

As Cricket lay there, snuggled against Julian, surrounded by his warmth, and his voice soothing her to sleep, she thought that maybe she should marry him after all. And she never did find out what happened to the three turtles, because by the time Julian got to the end of his story she was asleep.


	17. Raft, Cardinal, Rain

Eventually they made their way through the rich happy Chatterling country to the edge of the fens, that gloomy swampy region that spread out on either side of the river as it meandered its way down to Galwyn and the sea. The fens were filled with tall reeds that waved and rustled in the breeze, pools of water that hid all sorts of unpleasant creatures, sticky mud, and patches of quicksand. There was no traversing the fens. They were nearly impassable on foot, swampy and treacherous, with no clear path.

There was nothing for it but to travel the last part of their journey by boat. They lashed together some driftwood logs that were jammed up on the shore and that night, by the light of the waxing moon, they started down the river in their rough, precarious raft. They used long branches as poles to keep to the middle of the stream, away from the shore. They spoke in whispers as they passed other boats, which were anchored, dark and sleeping in the moonlight. The Fish River was wide and placid here, spreading out, in no hurry as it meandered on this final leg of its journey to the sea. When daylight came they pulled the raft in among some low hanging willows and tied up. They slept the day away in the moist green light that filtered through the trees, the raft rocking gently with the ebb and flow of the river.

The next night was overcast, threatening rain. They smelled the tang of the ocean coming up from the south. The river was phosphorescent with luminous tiny sea creatures as they poled the water, and they felt the pull of the ebb tide, rushing them southward.

In the dark of night they approached the outskirts of Galwyn. They pulled their makeshift raft into the shelter of a rotting, abandoned boathouse along the shore, that smelled of old mold and seaweed. They left it there and made their way cautiously into town.

********

Giddeon sat in his garden, under the trees, with the birds singing goodnight to each other. He was drinking, something he rarely did, but tonight he felt the need. The birds left him alone in his brooding silence. The sky was heavy, leaden. It was going to rain soon. The garden was green and pungent, ripening towards late summer fullness. He did not know what he was going to do.

He should have known, he chided himself. He had sworn when Loaldo left him, many years ago and broken his heart, that he would not let him back in, to break it again. And yet when he had appeared at Giddeon’s gate one spring evening, humble and pleading it had not taken much to weaken Giddeon’s resolve. Giddeon had let him inside. They had eaten together, talked and laughed, as old friend do, in the lowering light. Giddeon had let him go that night, to the inn where he had taken a room. But he hadn’t been able to sleep, and he had eventually gone out, in the moonless night that had turned stormy, and made his way through the wet streets of Galwyn to the Old Sailor’s Inn, where Loaldo had rented a bunk. Giddeon had found him at the bar, piteously drunk, and had dragged him back to the stone house on Magic Street where they had fallen on each other, like starving men at a feast. It never had been that way with anyone else. It never would be, Giddeon was certain. So, stupidly he had let Loaldo back in. Into his heart, into his bed, into his dreams and now, just when he had started to feel at ease, Loaldo had waltzed in one day and announced that he wanted to marry Saskia and have a child with her.

It was stupid, Giddeon told himself, stupid to imagine that he could have these ordinary things; love, constancy. He was a monster he reminded himself, and queer to boot. He should content himself with the memory of the times they had had. Let go with grace, and move on. But that was not the way of Giddeon’s heart, which persisted in aching as if it had been pierced. He took another drink of his wine. He wished he could cry, yearned for that release, but the tears would not come.

He sat and watched the cardinals flying in and out of their nest under the eaves. He could hear their babies chirruping hungrily each time a parent returned with food. The birds worked tirelessly from dawn to dusk to feed their family.

Maybe he did want to be a parent, Giddeon mused as he watched the birds busily flying back and forth. A cat had come into the yard and the father cardinal, his plumage flaming red in the low evening light was standing guard, cawing anxiously in an attempt to warn off the predator. The cat looked around lazily and slunk back into the shadows, on the prowl for easier game than the songbirds in Giddeon’s garden. The cardinal flew to the top of the shed and watched him retreat, until he was sure he was gone, then flew over to Giddeon. Giddeon stretched out a finger and the bright red bird landed on his hand.

He was so light, barely any weight at all. He looked at Giddeon earnestly, as if he had something to tell him.

“Do you think I’d be a good father?” Giddeon asked at last.

“Oh, yes,” the bird replied. “You are patient and kind. Your children will love you very much.”

“Isn't it terribly hard?” asked Giddeon.

“It gives my life a purpose,” the cardinal replied. “To feed the nestlings, to protect them, to teach them to fly some day. You will see.”

“I’m scared.”

“Don’t be,” the cardinal said. “You are doing a fine job already.”

“Already?” asked Giddeon, startled. “What do you mean?”

“The small one who comes to the garden,” said the cardinal. “With the dark hair. You show her patience and kindness. Through you, she is learning to trust.”

“Jupiter?“ responded Giddeon. “Learning to trust?”

“Yes,” replied the cardinal.” “To trust the world, and to trust her own heart. It is good.”

“And….and if I were to have a baby? A younger….nestling?”

The cardinal cocked his head and looked at Giddeon with such intensity that Giddeon felt he was looking right into his soul. “You would do fine,” he said. “Your man loves you truly, I can see that much. If he fathers a child, and brings it to you to help him raise, it will go well for you.”

“I…..I never thought I’d have a chance to be a parent.”

The cardinal looked at him so kindly Giddeon almost felt as if the little bird was smiling at him, although he knew that was impossible.

“You will like it,” the cardinal said. “I do.” And he sprang off of Giddeon’s hand flew back to his nest and his family, leaving a tingle on Giddeon’s finger where he had been sitting.

Giddeon sat there until the last light left the sky. The birds were quiet, asleep in their nests. The moon, behind heavy clouds, gave the sky a weird glow. He did not light the lamp. He sat in the quiet dark garden, and drank. He thought about what the cardinal had said.

Then he heard an odd sound. He lifted his head. He heard footsteps tapping up the usually quiet street to his door, whispering voices. Then a knocking, soft and persistent at the gate.

Giddeon lit the lamp with a charm. He made his way through the darkened garden, the shadows looming and flickering around the narrow beam of yellow light. It was starting to rain, large drops, hitting the leaves with a shushing sound.

At the gate stood Julian, and two other young people he recognized only from the scrying glass. They were mud spattered and travel stained, wide eyed in the yellow light.

“Calliope said you’d help us,” said Julian in a hoarse whisper. And Giddeon opened the gate.


	18. The Nonnery

The storm broke, with loud rain battering the roof, and the rumble of thunder. Giddeon fed his three guests and let them wash in the washroom at the back of the house. He lit a fire in the hearth, as the night was cool, and they all sat around it, in the low flickering light of the flames, and talked. Giddeon heard about their escape from the soldiers, the burning of their village, and their journey to Galwyn. As the flames flickered low, Julian dug into his pack, pulled out the Grimoire, and handed it to Giddeon. Giddeon took the ancient volume. He held it in his long fingers and stared at it.

“Calliope said to give it to you,” said Julian in a hoarse voice. He couldn’t quite read the expression on Giddeon’s face. Was he angry?

“Is this....?” he muttered to himself. “…..but no….it couldn’t be. Julian, what has Calliope told you about this book?”

“Erm….” Julian tried to think. “She said her Gran gave it to her,” he said, remembering. “She said.....it had been in her family for a long time. She said…..you would keep it safe.” In the warm firelight, clean and with a full belly for the first time in weeks, Julian felt himself growing sleepy, his mind slow.

“What….What did she call it?” asked Giddeon.

“It’s the Grimoire,” said Julian, as if this was so obvious it did not need to be stated. “It’s always been the Grimoire. It stung me when I was younger,” he added. “But now it’s all right.”

Giddeon turned the large book over in his elegant hands. The covers were heavy leather, ancient and cracked. In places the leather had been smoothed with age to a rich brown sheen, in others it looked charred and burned, as if it had been in a fire. It was covered with dark stains and the edges of the pages were discolored with mildew and age. It was closed with an elaborate clasp made of delicate filligreed gold, that shone in the firelight. Giddeon tried to open it but it was locked.

“Don’t forget the key,” said Birdie softly to Julian. In the dark room, in the warm firelight, his voice also sounded sleepy. “Calliope gave it to you, remember?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Julian. He reached under his shirt, and pulled out the golden key that Calliope had hung around his neck as they had fled. He handed it to Giddeon. “You need the key to open it.”

Giddeon took the key from Julian but he did not open the book. Instead he turned it over again and again in his hands, staring at it.

“There’s all sorts of interesting things in there,” said Julian, who felt the need to fill up the strange silence with words. “Star charts and planet charts, histories and fables, runes and numerology, recipes for healing potions. Calliope used to use those all the time. And beautiful pictures - Astralina and Cassandra - that’s my favorite, and the fox who stole the grapes, and the Corn Man - he’s right scary.” But Giddeon didn’t seem to be listening. Instead of opening the book, he passed his hand, palm down, over the top of it and muttered a short spell, too low for Julian to make out the words. The room tingled with magic, just for a moment and writing appeared on the cover of the book, in gold ink - blocky, ancient looking runes. Giddeon went pale, and sat down heavily in a chair.

The runes shimmered clearly on the cover for a few moments, glowing brightly in the semi-darkness of the firelit room. Then they dissapeared.

“Aren’tcha going to open it?” said Birdie into the silence.

“It probably won’t sting you,” said Julian. “Calliope meant for you to have it, so it‘ll be all right.”

Giddeon fingered the golden key thoughtfully, turned it over and looked at it, then laid it carefully beside the scarred and stained book.

“I know what this book is,” Giddeon spoke softly, as if it was an effort to get the words out. “This book is very old. And it has been missing for a very long time.”

“Keep it,” said Julian. “I don’t want it. And Calliope meant for you to have it. She said.”

Slowly, almost as if he were shouldering a great weight, Giddeon took the golden key and hung it around his neck. He got up, staggered a moment, then walked unevenly over to a chest in the corner.

“There are blankets in here,” he said, in a distracted sort of voice. “You’ll be all right around the fire, won’t you?”

They all nodded yes, and then Birdie spoke up. ”There’s another key,” he said, in a low voice.

“What?” Giddeon looked almost as startled by this news as he had been by the appearance of the Grimoire. “What do you mean?”

Birdie reached inside his own shirt and drew out another golden key - the one that the winged man had given him that night in the back garden. He handed it to Giddeon who studied it intently. He held it next to the key to the Grimoire. It was similar, but not the same. They were both made of the same golden metal, both identical in length, but where the key to the Grimoire was topped with a delicate, filigreed ring that matched the clasp on the book, the key that Birdie had given him had a simple metal circle at the top.

“Where did you get this, Birdie?” asked Giddeon. His tone was even but there was an intensity to his voice.

“Cricket’s Da,” replied Birdie.

“What?” said Cricket.

Birdie looked over at her. “Sorry Crick,” he said, “But it’s true. Your Da came round one night, to check on you. The key’s yours, really. I just been keeping it safe for you.”

“It’s mine?” said Cricket. “My….my father came round? You didn’t tell me?”

“Yeah,” said Birdie and looked at the ground. “I thought it might just…..mix you up.” He looked right into Cricket’s eyes. “He left us, Crick,” he said hoarsely. “You were just a baby, but I remember. He left us with nothing. Now he comes round when you’re almost grown and leaves you a key to nowhere? A key with no lock? What’s that supposed to mean?” Birdie looked as if he wanted to spit on the ground, and if they’d been outside he might have done so, but instead he just turned away, and his shoulders were shaking.

Julian kind of expected Cricket to launch into Birdie, fists flying, but she didn’t. She just stood and stared at him. Julian wanted to go over to Birdie, put an arm around his shaking shoulders and comfort him. At last Cricket spoke up.

“Why’d you tell me now?” she asked Birdie’s back. Her face in the low light was calm and determined.

Birdie turned around and gestured with his head to Giddeon. “Him,” Birdie said. “He knows things. I thought maybe he could tell us what it’s for.”

Cricket looked over at Giddeon. “Can you?” she asked him.

Giddeon contemplated the key a long time. “Who’s your father Cricket?” he asked at last.

“I don’t know,” she said, in a small voice. “He left when I was a baby, and Ma never told me his name. Birdie knows about him though.”

Birdie didn’t say a word.

“He’s a dark man, with….with wings,” spoke up Julian. “I saw him in the garden, the night he gave Birdie the key. He told him…..to give the key to Cricket. He said to tell Amanita he loved her and then…...he flew away.”

“I know this key,” said Giddeon thoughtfully. “It used to hang around the neck of my friend, Balthazar. He was, as you say Julian, a dark man with wings.”

“You know him?” asked Birdie. “He’s your friend?”

“Was my friend,” corrected Giddeon. “We parted ways, in the war. I haven’t heard word of him in many years. I thought he was probably dead. When did he give you this, Birdie? When did you see him?”

“It wasn’t that long ago,” said Birdie. He looked over at Julian for confirmation. “Just about a month back, wasn’t it? That night we went for the crayfish, remember?”

“It was right before the moon,” Julian confirmed. “And the moon’s nearly come round again so about a month, yeah.”

Giddeon stood and looked at the key in his hand a long time. “I’m sorry, Cricket,” he said at last. “I don’t know what lock this key was made to open.“ He handed the key to Cricket, and closed her fingers around it. “It’s yours,” he said. “Your father meant for you to have it. Guard it well, my dear. It may turn out to be very important, at the end.”

“The end of what?” asked Cricket, but Giddeon didn’t answer her question. Instead, he started pulling blankets out of the wooden chest.

“You can make yourselves comfortable beside the hearth, all right?" he said. "There’s plenty of blankets here. And you’ll stay with me, of course, until we can find out how Calliope fared, and where she is. Now, let’s get to bed. I must say, I’m very tired. Anything else you need?” he asked. “The privy’s out back and there’s water in the bucket by the sink.” He looked his three young guests over anxiously.

“We’re fine,” said Julian. His head was buzzing with questions but Giddeon clearly was done talking, at least for tonight.

“Goodnight, then,” Giddeon said. “I’m just upstairs if you need anything.” He picked up the Grimoire from where it sat on the table and then walked heavily up the stairs, leaving the three of them staring at each other in the light of the dying fire.

*********

Upstairs, Giddeon laid the ancient book on the table by the window and studied the cover for a long time. Then he once again passed his hand over the it, murmurred an incantation, and studied the golden runes that appeared there. “The Nonnery!” he whispered to himself. “How can that be?” How could it be that his old friend Calliope was in possession of this ancient book of power? How could it be that this long sought magical object, that had been missing for over a hundred years, had come into his hands? He fingered the golden key at his neck. He felt a hunger to open the book, and see inside, but he was also afraid. And what of the news that Balthazar had been seen by the two boys, less than a month ago, and that he was Cricket’s father? Giddeon thought of the second golden key, the one that Balthazar had left for his daughter. He clearly remembered that key, hanging on a chain around Balthazar’s neck. It seemed like a mate to the key to the book that lay on the table before him, but he had no idea what it could mean. He yearned to talk to Loaldo, but there was no quick way to get word to him.

At last, when Giddeon was quite sure his three young guests were asleep, he rose. He placed the Grimoire in a trunk at the foot of his bed, and locked it in with a heavy iron key which he slipped into his pocket. Then, quiet as he could, he went down the stairs, and out the door, into the rainy night. When he returned, an hour later, he unlocked the trunk and removed the ancient book. Then, with trembling fingers, he took the golden key from around his neck. He unlocked the hasp and opened the book. He sat at the table, in the pool of lamplight, and started turning over the brittle pages. He studied the book until dawn.

*********

When his guests woke up, Giddeon fed them tea and porridge, and set them to work in the garden. Jupiter arrived and gobbled the portion of food that had been set aside for her. She stayed close by Giddeon’s side, staring shyly at the new arrivals, saying little.

It was a hot day, still and close, as if another storm was brewing. In the afternoon Giddeon closed his shop and they climbed down the steep cliff behind his house to a rocky beach. There they bathed in the cold, salty water, and picked black shining mussels off the rocks for their supper. Giddeon cooked the mussels with onions and basil and tomatoes from his garden. He sent Julian out to the baker’s for a loaf of bread, and they had a fine supper, topped off with the first blackberries of the year which they had picked on their way home from the beach. After they ate, Giddeon went back out to the garden to tie up a few plants, and make sure all was in order before darkness fell.

Outside, the air was hot and stuffy. There was no wind. The plants were motionless, waiting. The garden was bathed in that particular light before a thunderstorm. The setting sun was unnaturally bright, turning the leaves on the trees a weird, luminescent green. The clouds in the north were heavy, a yellow purple grey, like a bruise. A single crow was cawing at the top of the pear tree. The other birds had all gone quiet. Giddeon looked up from his tasks and met the crow’s eye.

“What news brother crow?” he asked.

“Big storm,” cawed the crow back at Giddeon. “Wind! Thunder! Bad! Very bad for birds!”

“You can shelter in my house if you like,” said Giddeon.

The crow swooped down onto Giddeon’s arm. Suddenly the brightness was gone from the trees as dark clouds covered the sun. Two sparrows, in the lilac bushes, started to twitter and fight, battling over a safe perch with room for only one. When the fight was over the world became unnaturally still again. Then the wind, which had been absent a moment before, rustled the trees, bringing fresh chilly air up from the sea and into the garden.

“Balloon man,” squawked the crow conversationally.

Giddeon felt his heart sink. If Loaldo’s balloon got caught in the storm he wouldn’t survive.

“Where?” he asked the crow. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The chill breeze was growing stiffer, the rustling of the trees more pronounced.

“East,” replied the crow.

“Do you think he’ll outrun the storm?” Giddeon asked anxiously.

If crows could shrug this one would. He looked up at Giddeon’s face with his lively eye.The wind was loud now, and raindrops were splattering the garden, the leaves of the plants whipping around, pattered mercilessly by the large raindrops.

Giddeon rose with the crow still seated on his outstretched arm and went into the shelter of the house.

 

********

  
The storm was a northwester, blowing in from the sea on a cold wind laden with salt spray. The wind howled and the rain lashed against Giddeon’s small house. Galwyn was built on a cliff above the sea, with long winding stone steps and narrow cobbled streets that led, steeply to the harbor below, where the wharves and jetties hugged the sheltered shore. It was the safest harbor in the world, people liked to say.

Tonight, in the stone house at the edge of the street called Magic, Giddeon shuttered the windows to keep out the storm. He built up the fire but the wind blew down the chimney and made the flames sputter and dance. Shadow perched on the wooden mantel, and surveyed the scene protectively with his watchful yellow eye. The black crow perched beside him.

Giddeon hunkered down by the fire with his three young guests. His heart was tight with worry about Loaldo but there was nothing he could do. Either Loaldo had come to ground safely before the storm hit or he had been caught in it.

Darkness was falling fast, and Giddeon rose to light the lamp. Just as the flame touched the wick there was a rattle at the front door and Loaldo blew in, his long curls plastered to his head, water running in rivulets from his cloak.

Giddeon ran to him and embraced his sopping wet form, laughing and crying and kissing him.

“You’re all right!” Giddeon gasped at last.

Loaldo laughed and swept the water out of his eyes

“I was worried,” said Giddeon. “The crow told me he saw the airship, but I didn’t know if you landed safely before the storm hit.”

“It was a near thing,” said Loaldo. “There’s a bit of damage to the rudder, but I landed her all right. Hell walking here in the storm, though. Any chance of supper?”

And then the little cottage, that had been so glum a moment ago, rang with chatter and laughter as they seated Loaldo by the fire, pulled off his wet boots and his cloak and dished him up some soup. Loaldo liked the young people, he was easy and sociable with them in a way that Giddeon could never be. He regaled them with tales of his travels, of other storms he had flown through, of other close calls. Then he turned to tales of their student days, when he and Giddeon had been young and free and brave, and defended the Capitol against the invaders from the north, of the days before the reign of the Brotherhood, when their country was a free and open land, when ordinary folk did not fear the long arm of the law, and when Calliope had been a slender beauty, in love with a dark skinned sailor from a faraway land.

Julian sat through the evening transfixed as he watched Giddeon and Loaldo together - their easy affection, their obvious intimacy, the way they let their hands touch and linger as Giddeon served the simple meal, and afterwards, as they sat together closely in the firelight, telling tales of their youth. More closely together than men usually sat. Their legs were touching, and at one point, Giddeon sighed contentedly and rested his head on Loaldo’s shoulder. Julian had seen the way they had kissed when Loaldo had arrived. The passion in it, the relief. Now watching and listening in the firelight he wondered, with a strange hope growing in his chest if there could be others, other men, who felt the same way he did.

Of course he knew about it, in a way, didn’t he? The scoffs and comments of the village boys, the men who had used Birdie for money at his mother’s insistence. These were bad things, and Julian avoided thinking of them. He did not want to be like those men, who came furtively to their village late at night, and used Birdie, and humiliated him, and made him so angry that he stank of smoke and fire came from his fingers and sparks flew when his feet touched the earth. So angry that he picked fights with Julian , and when Julian wasn’t there, he hit himself so hard he bruised. When these things happened it made Julian angry as well, so angry he wanted to kill those men. He hated them. The thought that maybe he was like them sickened him.

What he saw in the firelight that night was completely different. He saw the affection and the respect the two men had for each other. He felt the love. It was obvious. No explanations were needed. And if Giddeon and Loaldo could have a life like that maybe, someday, he and Birdie could as well.

********

Giddeon sat by the fire and looked on Loaldo with love as he entertained the young people and put them at ease. He got them to talk, slowly coaxing from them tales of their adventures, of their life in the village, of their hopes and dreams. Giddeon felt his love for Loaldo more deeply than he ever had. When at last he got Loaldo up the stairs and behind closed doors he peeled off his wet clothing as if he were peeling an orange and then he fell upon him hungrily. And before they lost themselves completely to the passion that they both felt, he held Loaldo’s head in his hands for a minute and looked him in the eye.

“I’ve decided,” Giddeon said.

“Decided?”

“About the baby.”

“Oh,” said Loaldo.

“Yes,” said Giddeon.

“Yes?”

“Go ahead.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you were going to say no.”

“I was.”

“I would accept that, you know,” said Loaldo. He took Giddeon’s hand and looked into his eyes, which were burning bright with love. “I don’t want you to do this just for me. I want a child, but I want you more. I won’t lose you over this, Giddeon.”

“Loaldo.”

“Yes?”

“I want it, too.”

“You do?”

“To be a father, to be a parent. I do,” said Giddeon.

“What made you change your mind?” asked Loaldo.

“I talked to a bird,” said Giddeon, and he kissed Loaldo and they didn’t talk anymore that night.


	19. A Day On Magic Street

In the early morning light, Loaldo woke with the birds. He went down to the kitchen, tiptoed past Julian, Birdie and Cricket who lay rolled in blankets before the cold hearth, and made tea. He brought two steaming mugs back to Giddeon who lay sleeping in their warm nest. He stationed himself in the window seat, overlooking the town, which was just beginning to stir. He sipped his tea, watching Giddeon as he slept.

It was a cool morning. The storm was over and the sky was a clear pale blue. He felt light hearted and hopeful after their conversation the night before. He felt tremendous relief that Giddeon had agreed to the baby. He had a trembling, hopeful feeling in his chest that maybe, finally, the life he really wanted was within reach.

At last Giddeon stirred and Loaldo moved back to the bed. He cupped a mug in both hands and warmed it with a quick charm.

Giddeon stretched enormously and smiled up at him. “I slept well,” he said. He reached up to kiss Loaldo. “It’s good to have you with me.”

Loaldo handed him the cup of hot tea. Giddeon wrapped his hands around it and sipped gratefully. The cool air of the morning, washed clean from the storm, came in the window where Loaldo had thrown back the shutters. The sounds of the town waking up came in on the clear air, the clop of horses hooves, the creaking of wooden wheels over the cobbles, the squeaking of pulleys as boats were loaded and sails lifted.

Loaldo lifted the quilt and got into bed beside Giddeon, snuggling into the warmth of him, enjoying the rightness of being beside him once again.

“What do you think of my visitors?” Giddeon asked him, stroking his hair.

“They’re nice kids,” Loaldo said, and he kissed Giddeon’s neck, just above the collarbone. “I like them.”

“They brought me something,” said Giddeon quietly as he sipped his tea.

“What could that have been?” asked Loaldo, playfully.

“They brought me the Nonnery,” said Giddeon.

And just like that, Loaldo felt the little bubble of hope and happiness inside him deflating, until it was gone, as if it had never even existed.

“What did you say?” asked Loaldo, although he had heard Giddeon perfectly.

“The Nonnery,” repeated Giddeon.

“How….?”

“Calliope had it,” replied Giddeon.

“Calliope?”

Giddeon sipped his tea and nodded. From outside, the gulls cawed, and the bell buoy off of Bloody Rock rang in the clear morning air.

“She must have had it all along,” said Giddeon. “All these years. Julian said her grandmother gave it to her.”

“And….?”

“They gave me the key,” said Giddeon. “I was up all night, reading.”

“Did you find…….?”

“The rest of the prophecy?” said Giddeon. “No, not yet. But it’s got to be in there. Just a matter of keeping looking, sifting through.”

“Calliope may know,” said Loaldo. “She’s had the book all this time.”

“Yes, if she’s still alive,” said Giddeon. “It sounds…. Pretty bad, what happened in their village. Calliope’s priority was clearly to protect the Nonnery, and get Julian and his friends out of there alive. What happened after they left…….” He shuddered. “We just don’t know. I went to see Degon and Clive, and they left for the Clay Country early this morning, to see. But it’s at least a week’s journey, there and back.”

“I could take the airship,” said Loaldo, thoughtfully. “But it might be suspicious, if I don’t show up at the office this morning.”

“It would definitely be suspicious if you were seen flying around the Clay Country,” replied Giddeon. “According to Degon, the Brotherhood troops have moved in there in earnest. Your airship is well known. It could easily raise suspicions if you go poking around there.”

Loaldo let out a huff of air in frustration. He was a man of action. Living the life of a spy, of secrecy and intrigue, of watching rather than doing, was a source of endless frustration for him.

“What of Tobias?” Loaldo asked.

“All Julian can tell me is he took a southern berth. I don’t think there’s any way to reach him. At least not until he returns in the fall.”

“And Calliope?”

Giddeon shrugged. “She could be dead, could be in hiding. It’s impossible to know. I doubt she was able to stay in her cottage. The Brotherhood is rousting out all the village witches and wise women in these parts.”

“Perhaps she’ll come here,” said Loaldo.

“I think she will, if she can,” said Giddeon. “She sent the children here. And her best escape is through Galwyn, to the Western Archipelago. Tobias’ people will keep her safe, if she can reach them.”

“Not like Calliope to run away, though,” said Loaldo.

“No,” said Giddeon. “It isn’t. But she may be running out of options.” He set his mug down on the floor and pulled Loaldo close. “There’s more,” he said.

“More?” said Loaldo. “More? What could possibly…..?”

“I’ve had word of Balthazar,” said Giddeon.

“Balthazar?” repeated Loaldo.

“The boys have seen him,” said Giddeon. “Julian and Birdie. He came to them, last month, apparently. He’s….. Cricket is his daughter.”

“What?” said Loaldo.

“You heard me,” replied Giddeon.

“Cricket?”

“Yes.”

“But…… really?” said Loaldo.

“I think it’s true,” said Giddeon. ”I believe what the boys told me. And Cricket…. She’s the dark haired girl we saw in the scrying glass. She fits the prophecy.”

“Do you really think...?” said Loaldo.

“I feel it coming off of her, “ replied Giddeon. “The power. It has only surfaced a few times, but her magic has an intensity behind it. She could be the one.”

“And…. she’s Balthazar’s daughter?” said Loaldo

“Yes. She is. I’ve no doubt about it. They saw him,” said Giddeon. “It had to be him. The wings, the dark scar, the key. You remember the key he wore around his neck?”

“Oh yes,” said Loaldo. “I remember.”

“He gave it to Birdie.”

 “The key?” said Loaldo. “He gave them the key? Are you sure it’s the same one?”

“Yes,” said Giddeon. “I saw that key around Balthazar’s neck for years. It’s the same one. I’m sure of it.”

Loaldo lay in the warm bed with Giddeon in his arms but all the joy he had felt earlier in the morning had evaporated. Balthazar? Alive? Cricket’s father? Balthazar had a child? And she was that dark haired, green eyed girl he had sat around the fire with last night, regaling her with tales of his adventures. It seemed impossibly strange. And yet…. He had to admit, he saw the resemblance - the high cheekbones, something about the eyes, although the color was different…….

“I’ve been seeking Balthazar for years,” said Loaldo hoarsely.

“I know,” said Giddeon.

“I….. if we were to find him……” Balthazar had been Loaldo’s best friend, the joy of his youth, his partner in crime. They’d charmed their way out of countless scrapes and misadventures, they’d captivated the hearts of all the girls. Then the war had come, and they’d been brothers in arms, inseparable , dependent on each other for their very survival. He had already started up with Giddeon by then, but Giddeon had been stationed with the medics, pulling the wounded off the fields, doing what he could to heal them. Loaldo and Balthazar had been cavalry, on the front lines, facing down the enemy time and again, watching each others backs. And then…..well….. Loaldo didn't like to think about what had happened then. But he’d never lost faith in Balthazar…. in spite of how things appeared …. in spite of the doubts..... He had still believed in him……. Had still sought him out, given him the benefit of the doubt……

But for many long years there had been no word, no sign, no hint that he was still alive, or what his real motivations might have been.

And now….this…..

Balthazar’s daughter was the girl sleeping beside the hearth, with the key he had worn as long as Loaldo had known him around her neck.

The key that Balthazar had never explained to him, never told him what it meant, what door it unlocked.

But he knew it was important…..

Loaldo knew. He had always known.

He had a sense of events rushing in, of things coming together.

“He’s alive,” he said softly into Giddeon’s shoulder.

“It seems as if it’s so,” Giddeon replied.

“I….. I don’t know what to think,” said Loaldo.

“I know, “ said Giddeon. "Me either. It’s…… a lot.”

“I like her,” said Loaldo slowly. “If she really is Balthazar’s daughter. She seems.....strong.”

“Yes,” said Giddeon. “If she is…..If she truly is…..She’s going to need that strength."

They lay together, while the morning chorus of the birds quieted and the sun rose in the sky. The light in their room turned from the cool blue of dawn to the bright yellow honey of a midsummer morning.

“I must get to the office,” said Loaldo at last. “I’m sure the books are a mess, as usual. I’ll stop at the market and bring a fish for supper.”

He rose reluctantly and started getting ready for the day. He filled the basin with water, washed and shaved. He pulled on his clothes - breeches, a green tunic with his family’s crest, stockings, boots that closed with silver buckles down the sides. He stood and looked at his face in the small looking glass beside Giddeon’s wardrobe, ran his fingers through his mane of curls. He put on his felt hat, broad brimmed with a feather and adjusted the angle in the glass. Giddeon, naked, watched him from between the sheets, though he too must be up and about his business.

“The moon is tomorrow night,” Giddeon said from the bed.

“I know,” said Loaldo. “I’ll stop at Primple’s after work and get us a glimpie.”

“Best get two if you can,” said Giddeon.

“Two?” questioned Loaldo.

“One for Birdie,” said Giddeon.

“Birdie?” queried Loaldo.

“Julian is…...like me,” said Giddeon. “He and Birdie can run with us. It will do him good, to have Birdie beside him, I think.”

“All right,” said Loaldo. He went back to the bed, and took Giddeon’s hand, and kissed him on the mouth.

“I love you,” said Loaldo, looking into his eyes. “I really love you.”

“I’m glad,” said Giddeon, looking back at him, his eyes burning.

“We have to stay together,” Loaldo said. “Whatever happens. I need you in my life. We have to make sure we can be with each other.”

“Yes,” agreed Giddeon. “We do.” He pulled Loaldo tight against him, and clung to him, for a moment, not wanting to let him go. “I love you, too,” he whispered in Loaldo’s ear.

At last, they separated. Giddeon watched as Loaldo left their breezy attic bedroom. He listened to his boots clicking on the stairs as he descended. The front door creaked open and closed, and he was gone.

********

As Loaldo had anticipated, the books were a mess. Billy O’Malley wheezed and cursed as he got them off their high shelf in the warehouse (why they were placed so inconveniently was, Loaldo suspected a symbol of the poor regard they were kept in by the general manager.) Billy was a smelly old goat, and openly scornful of Loaldo’s privileged position and interfering ways. He spread out the ledgers for Loaldo, spat, and shuffled away.

It was not a bad day however. The cool air, perfumed with the smell of the ocean blew in the window by the table where Loaldo worked. He found satisfaction in untangling the twisted threads of Billy's indifferent bookkeeping and setting things to rights. It was always so, his first day back. At noon he bought a sausage roll at a cookshop, and sat out in the warm sunshine and ate, while the gulls wheeled and cawed overhead, eyeing his food covetously from the sky. In the afternoon, Birdie, Julian and Cricket came by, and he had fun showing them around the warehouse, and giving them some coppers to spend. At four, he put the ledgers away, satisfied with a good day's work.

He bought a fish from the fishmonger on Market Street, a large red snapper, swimming in a barrel. He watched as the toothless old woman broke its neck and cleaned it, then he paid her and she handed him the fish, wrapped in paper. He bought two crusty loaf from the baker next to her and headed up the hill to Giddeon’s stone house at the edge of Magic Street.

The town was busy as he made his way through the streets. People were getting done with their workday, heading back from the shops with supplies for supper, as he was. Shopkeepers were closing up, mothers were calling their children home. The clop of horses hooves rang out on the cobbles. Overhead, he heard the incessant crying of the gulls. A three legged dog lay in the last rays of the sun against a stone building. On a corner, a thin, dark haired boy with a violin played for his supper, and Loaldo, goodnaturedly, threw a coin in his case. The boy looked up, and then turned furtively away, which Loaldo found somewhat rude, but he was in too good a mood to care. He liked Galwyn, it’s busy purposeful atmosphere. He had done a good day’s work, and he was going home to Giddeon with the makings of a good supper in the bag slung over his arm.

When he got to Giddeon’s stone house he strolled past it and onto Magic Street proper. Magic Street sat at the top of the town and wound its way into the neighborhood of tiny streets and alleyways in the shadow of the cathedral. It was a busy place, for such a small town, but it was the only Magical business district for the whole region. People would travel miles to purchase a potion, have a future read, or consult a seer. Those in need of a charm or a spell or a cure for an illness would come to Galwyn and search in the shops that lined the winding cobbled street. There were several magical apothecaries, though none so well respected as Giddeon’s. There were brightly lit emporiums that smelled of magic, with amulets and spells tightly wrapped in red and gold paper hanging enticingly in the windows. There was a fireworks store and a shop devoted to the brewing of potions. In dark corners, shifty looking men carried boxes slung round their necks filled with less savory wares, ingredients used for the darker arts - poisons and curses. A tiny witch, dressed all in black sat at a rickety table peering into a crystal ball, a line of young girls and tired looking housewives standing patiently in line to have their fortunes read. This was Fracken Crunk, who lived out in the swamplands among the mists and vapors. She only came to town every third Thursday if the wind was right, and her fortune telling was legendary.

Loaldo stopped at a small, dusty looking shop. The window was empty, except for a single brass lamp, Aladdin style and tarnished, set on a faded piece of blue velvet. A one eyed white cat beside it glared out at the street. Loaldo slipped inside. At the jingle of the bell, the proprietor, a nervous, mousy looking man shuffled out from the back and peered at him from behind gold rimmed spectacles. “Good evening sir,” the man said nervously, as if he wished he were somewhere completely different. Probably home by his warm fireside, Loaldo mused.

“Mr. Primple,” Loaldo greeted the man. “Good evening to you.”

“What can I do for you?” Mr. Primple asked in a reedy voice. He ran a hand nervously over his balding head, as if to smooth down hairs that were no longer there.

“Two glimpies please, my good man,” Loaldo said.

“Two?” asked Mr. Primple nervously. Loaldo’s usual order was for one of the powerful wishing stones.

“That’s what I said,” Loaldo replied. “And mind they're fresh now.”

The glimpies shone greenish white and glass smooth in the low light of the shop. They were not cheap, and Loaldo paid for them in gold, grateful that he could so easily afford them. Then, well satisfied with his day, he pocketed the glimpies and headed back down Magic Street. He turned in at the gate of Giddeon’s stone cottage. To supper. To home.

*********

Julian, Birdie and Cricket had had a fine day. Giddeon had worked them in the gardens in the morning. It had been bright and clear. Giddeon had been in an excellent mood, no doubt because Loaldo was there. He set his guests to weeding and watering and trimming the edges of beds - light pleasant work that felt like a holiday in the warm sunshine with the birds singing and the bees buzzing. In the afternoon he had set them loose and they had wandered the streets of the town, looking into the windows of shops and making their way down to the quay. There they found Loaldo, hard at work at his high desk by a window that looked out over the busy harbor. He had showed them around his warehouse, where goods from all over the western seas were stored and sorted, bought and sold, and distributed on barges and carts throughout all of Tellurium. There were huge bales of sugar, barrels of rum, crates of oranges, huge bunches of green bananas hanging from hooks in the ceiling. They were fascinated by the wealth of the place, and Loaldo’s obvious importance at the center of it. Then he got called away to see about a shipment of dates and he sent them on their way, throwing them some oranges and a couple of coppers.

They spent their money at a chowder house, sucking down the hot savory soup and watching the boats coming and going at the docks. It was endlessly fascinating and it filled them all with a deep yearning to go to sea, to hoist those billowing sails, pull on those ropes and sail off to the free islands that Tobias had told them about all their lives. By late afternoon, as they lazily made their way up the hill from the harbor, full of the sights and sounds they had seen, as well as the delicious chowder, Birdie was waxing lyrical with plans for them all.

“We’ll go to sea, we will. Cricket’ll have to pass as a cabin boy, a’course, but that won't be too hard. I’ll play my guitar and be ship’s musician, and Julian’ll sign on as an able seaman. We’ll sail away in one of those big grand schooners and see the world. What’s to stop us?”

And Cricket and Julian, bellies full and carried away with the force of Birdie’s vision, couldn't think of a single thing.

They ended their glorious half day of leisure on Magic Street, where they poked into the little dusty shops and magical emporiums, watched the casters of signs and the fortune tellers reading cards, the old men seated at little tables playing sennett at the side of the square, their faces wizened and their eyes glittering, the young boys in a group betting on the rolls of a set of dice. At last they felt their bellies calling them again. They tossed their last copper to a boy who stood on a corner and played the violin with heartstopping sweetness, his long black hair covering his face. He looked up at them, for a moment, in gratitude, and the look pierced all three of them, with its beauty and intelligence. Then he looked away and they ambled back to the stone house marked Apothecary, where Giddeon lived.

They paused at the gate and looked into the garden. Giddeon’s peaceable kingdom. Loaldo was home. Giddeon was seated at the small wrought iron table, a glass of currant wine glowing ruby in the low light of the setting sun. Loaldo stood behind him, kissing his neck and Giddeon’s head was thrown back, his eyes closed. It was a private moment, and they turned away, and went in at the front door, but Julian felt his heart gladden at the site of them.

********

They ate the fish with green onions from the garden and the fresh bread. After supper, Giddeon went upstairs to his attic bedroom, and looked out the high west facing window over the sea, and the setting sun.

Galwyn was the gateway to the western islands, those warm green dollops of paradise set down in the warm blue southwest sea. Those islands were where Tobias had grown up, and where Loaldo had made a living as an airshipman all those long years he had been away. They were far away, too far to be seen, but sometimes, in the lonely years of his life before Loaldo had returned to him, Giddeon had stood at this window and imagined that he could see just a shining glimpse of a warm, tropical island, rising out of the mist to the southwest.

Tonight he had no time for such fancies, nor fortunately had he a need for them. Not any longer. Not with Loaldo rising from his bed every morning, and returning every evening to share his humble board and the pleasures of the night. The sun was fast sinking into the misty sea.

As he stood there at the open window, Giddeon’s friend the red cardinal came fluttering up, and sat upon the finger he held out for it.

“I have decided,” he told the bird.

The cardinal looked at him and cocked his head,

“We will be fathers,” Giddeon told him. “Two fathers.”

“That is good,” the bird told him. “You will not regret the opportunity to love a child.” And he flew away down the garden to his nest.


	20. Werewolves and Glimpies

Julian woke with a dark heavy growth of beard. It itched. He looked over at the sleeping lump of Birdie beside him. He scratched at his face, the nails digging into the rough stubble. It gave him no relief. He was worried. He knew the moon was tonight. There was no shed here. He didn’t know what he was going to do.

What did Giddeon do? Hadn’t he said he was also - a werewolf? Julian didn’t like to think about - didn’t like to say the word in his head - but he couldn’t deny the pulling tug of the moon in his bones. He felt it in his belly, in his guts, in his liver and spleen, in every hair follicle of his skin. It pulled on his kidneys, making him pee more. It pulled on his glands, causing him to sweat profusely. The day before the moon he was always thirsty, always shedding water. He could never seem to get enough to drink.

He heard Cricket stirring. She yawned and sat up. She looked over at Julian and her face filled with concern. ”You all right?” she asked softly.

Julian shrugged and turned away from her. He curled up in a ball, on the floor beside Birdie, with his back to Cricket. For a moment he thought he might cry, his emotions close to the surface. The day before the moon was always the worst. He felt nauseated, bile rising from his stomach. His skin was crawling.

“Birdie," he heard Cricket say softly.

“Mmph,” Birdie said. “Go’way.”

Cricket was shaking Birdie’s shoulder. “Get up,” she said, and Julian could hear the worry in her voice.

“What issit?” said Birdie grumpily. He pulled the blanket over his head.

“It’s Julian,” said Cricket.

Birdie sat up and shook himself. He yawned enormously, then yanked on Julian’s shoulder and pulled him around and looked into his eyes. Julian turned away from him and curled up again in a ball. Birdie put his hand on Julian’s back, a warm, solid weight.

“It’s just the moon,” Birdie said softly to Cricket. “Get his potion.”

“His potion?” asked Cricket.

“The blue bottle in his pack,” said Birdie.

Julian heard Cricket moving about and going through his pack, which was in a corner by the hearth. He just wanted Birdie to leave his hand there, warm and reassuring. Cricket brought over the blue bottle and Birdie hauled on him and got him sitting up. He put an arm around his shoulders, and Julian just wanted to melt into him. His mouth filled with spit and he swallowed hard and buried his nose in Birdie’s neck.

“You gonna puke?” asked Birdie.

“No,” said Julian grimly. “Not yet.”

“Here," said Birdie. ”Drink this.” He held the blue bottle to Julian’s lips.

Julian swallowed the familiar bitter potion. It burned as it went down his throat.

“Better?” asked Birdie, looking at him anxiously.

Julian felt the potion hit his stomach, felt it coursing through his bloodstream, and then, in fact he did feel better. The nausea was less, that awful scratchy feeling, like he couldn’t stand his own skin was gone. He shook his head, and tried to smile at Birdie. He didn’t want him to take his arm away. “A little,” he said.

Birdie handed the bottle back to Cricket who was looking at Julian with deep anxiety. ”Close it good and put it away, Crick,” Birdie instructed. “He’s going to need more later.”

Julian lay back and pulled Birdie on top of him. He really didn’t want to let him go. Birdie’s weight on top of him felt like it was tethering him to the earth, the only thing keeping him from flying apart. He kissed Birdie's cheek, then laughed a wild irrepressible laugh.

Suddenly he felt his stomach clench. He often got diarrhea, the day before. He pushed Birdie off him and got up shakily.

“Privy,” he said hoarsely and ran for the back door.

 

********

  
Giddeon’s privy was the nicest one Julian had ever seen. It was a small stone building, whitewashed inside, with high windows around the top to let in light and air. Sweet smelling roses grew over the roof, and bunches of herbs hung from the ceiling. All this must mask the smell, or perhaps some additional magic was at work, because there was no bad odor in there at all.

The seat was a platform with a hole in the middle. He sat down and groaned and clutched his stomach as liquid poo poured out of him. He hated the moon, he hated it! Why did it have to be him? Why did it have to be every month? He rubbed at his chin, which was bristly with scratchy dark hairs. Even the hairs on his arms and hands seemed longer, darker. His knuckles seemed to have sprouted hair overnight. He hated this. This wasn’t him. It had nothing to do with him!

He would have to talk to Giddeon, Giddeon would know what to do, but he felt embarrassed. He missed Calliope and Tobias. They had always taken such good care of him - he had never had to think about what to do before. They had always been there, protective and loving. His heart clenched with worry over what had happened to Calliope. It had been weeks since the attack on their village. What was keeping her from making it here, to meet them?

At last he got up, threw some cedar chips into the hole and shut the lid. He felt bad, stinking up Giddeon’s privy, but the herbs seemed to be doing their job, and the smell wasn’t as bad as he had feared. There was a bucket of water, standing by the door, and he washed his sore bottom and his hands, and stepped outside.

Birdie was lurking, waiting for him. He didn’t say anything, but the question was in his eyes. _“You all right?”_ Julian nodded. He did feel a little better. Birdie grabbed him roughly and pulled him to the back of the yard, behind the toolshed. He shoved Julian up against the rough wall and kissed him for a long time. This was what Julian needed, really, Birdie’s mouth hot and tender on his, Birdie’s arms enclosing him, Birdie’ penis, hard and hungry , against his thigh. Everywhere Birdie was touching him felt super charged, super sensitive, and super good.

At last they broke apart.

“Aren’t you afraid?” Julian asked.

“Afraid?” scoffed Birdie. “Of what?”

“Of me. When I’m....like this.”

“Nah,” said Birdie. “Never. Not of you.” He ran his tongue slowly over Julian’s lips, which caused Julian to let out a small involuntary moan. “I like you like this,” he whispered into Julian’s ear, his breath causing a delicious tingle to run right to the base of Julian’s spine. “C’mon,” he added, pulling Julian out of the shadow of the toolshed into the bright morning sunshine and toward the house. “Let’s get some food in your stomach while you can still eat.”

And Julian, who felt suddenly, ravenously, uncontrollably hungry, allowed himself to be led back to the stone house and into the kitchen.

********

Loaldo served them tea and eggs and toast, explaining that Giddeon wasn’t feeling well and would be down later. After they ate he pulled Birdie aside and showed him two opalescent greenish stones he held in the palm of his hand. They were about the size of a plum, and they shimmered in Loaldo’s large calloused palm, catching the morning light in iridescent swirls.

“What are they?” asked Birdie. He reached out his long index finger and gently laid it on one of the stones in Loaldo’s palm. He felt the tingle of magic, and drew his finger away quickly.

“They’re glimpies,” replied Loaldo.

“Glimpies?”

“Magic wishing stones.”

“I’ve heard of those,” said Birdie thoughtfully. “Never seen one though. Aren’t they wicked expensive?”

“Fairly expensive,” replied Loaldo, with a smile. He was growing fond of Birdie, with his rough ways and street smarts and delicate musician’s hands.

“What’re they for?” asked Birdie curiously. “Why’re you showing them to me?”

“They're for us,” replied Loaldo.

“Us?”

“You and me,” he said.

“What’re we going to use them for?” asked Birdie. “Money?”

“No, sadly, they don’t work for that,” said Loaldo. “Money still has to be earned, unfortunately, and there’s no spell or wishing stone that will change that.”

“What then?” asked Birdie. He was growing impatient.

“They’re for tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“We can use them to ….. Transform”

“Transform?” asked Birdie. “Transform into what?”

“Why - whatever animal you choose. I usually choose some kind of canine, a wolf or dog or a fox - so it's easy to keep up.”

“But…. why?”

“So we can run with the wolves.”

**********

It was a hot day. Giddeon came downstairs, distracted and unkempt. He drank some tea, but wouldn’t eat anything, in spite of Loaldo’s worried coaxing.

“Stop fussing, Loaldo," Giddeon snapped at last. “Get to the office. I’ll be all right.” And he headed out to the garden in a huff.

They all worked in the garden for a few hours.Everyone was irritable and the work went slowly. At last Giddeon said he had a headache and went inside to lie down. Birdie, Julian and Cricket headed down the cliff, to the cool inviting sea, picking blackberries along the way, scraping their arms, and staining their fingers, each berry a burst of sweet juicy flavor.

They swam in the cool salty waves, and they all felt much better after that. Then Cricket wandered off, looking for pretty shells, her maker's mind alive with possibilities. Julian and Birdie found a sheltered place among the rocks, hidden from view. There they lay down together, and Birdie held Julian, and kissed him, and for a long time, they were lost in each other, the waves crashing against the shore and their bodies crashing into each other, again and again, being pulled along by a force that couldn’t be denied, until they lay, breathless and spent, holding each other as close as they could, in the cool sand.

“Feel better now, little bro?” Birdie asked.

“Don’t call me that,” said Julian.

“I know what you need,” said Birdie, and he kissed Julian’s neck.

When they got back to the beach the tide was coming in and Loaldo was there, teaching Cricket how to ride the waves and soon they were all doing it, jumping and splashing in the surf, letting the powerful waves lift them up and carry them to shore, and then letting the undertow pull them back out, over and over again.

 

********

After the moon rose, Cricket sat alone by the hearth. She had built up the fire, and wrapped herself in a quilt. She had locked the door, and the stone walls of Giddeon’s house felt safe and solid around her. She felt a little nervous but also excited. Cricket had never been alone all night, in a strange house, in a big town like Galwyn. The moon shone outside filling up the world with silvery light. From the window came the smells and sounds of the sleeping harbor, boats creaking with the restless pull of the water, to and fro, the steady tolling of the bell buoy off of Bloody Rock. Cricket fingered the key at her neck thoughtfully. She had hounded Birdie and Julian for whatever information they would give her about that night- the night her father had mysteriously appeared. She tried to picture the winged man, with the scar across his cheek, that Julian had described for her - well, Julian had been more generous with information than Birdie had. Birdie didn’t seem to want to talk about it at all. When she pushed him for more details he just got a certain kind of hurt look in his eye and turned away from her.

Now she drew the key out from under her dress where it lay hidden. She examined the untarnished gold, which glowed softly in the firelight. She felt the weight of it in her hand, heavier and denser than ordinary metal. No one had any idea what lock it opened. It was a key to nowhere. She polished it with her sleeve, hoping that something would happen. Perhaps some ancient runes would appear or a genie would pop out, like in a story. But the key lay in her palm, glowing softly, solid and unchanged.

Cricket wished the winged man, her father would come back and see her. Or perhaps she could find him. Loaldo and Giddeon knew him - maybe she could get some more information from them.

She thought of her mother, beautiful, dark eyed and always sad. Her mother was bad - Cricket knew this. Only a bad mother would offer her own children up for sale. Only a bad mother cared more about her nightly dose of slit than about her own family. But Cricket loved her mother, she couldn’t help it. Her heart ached for Amanita, almost as if she were the mother, and Amanita were the child. There was something broken inside Amanita, something deep. She had never been right inside, not the way other mothers were. Something had happened to her, something bad, and it had to do with the winged man, and Cricket’s own birth.

She heard a distant howling, and shuddered. She wondered if it was them, her brother and Julian, and the two strange men who had taken them all in and treated them so kindly. She thought of Julian as he had been just before they all left, a grim, silent group, headed for the woods. His sweaty forehead, his pale face, that strange high laugh he got, laughing at things that weren’t really funny. He’d been scratching at himself, his hands never still, fluttering about, restless and tremulous. He started at almost anything, the loud caw of a crow, a stray leaf, fluttering in from the window. She hoped they were all right, out there in the wild moonlit summer night, but she trusted Loaldo to keep them all safe.

Cricket sat and stared at the flames for a long time. At last she roused herself and went over to the high bookshelf beside the workbench where Giddeon kept his precious collection of books. Cricket could read - Calliope and Julian had taught her how. The book she selected was a geography, thick with maps of Tellurium and the world beyond. She brought it back to the rocker by the fire, wrapped herself again in the quilt, and studied the maps, wondering where in the world her father might be, until she fell asleep.


	21. After the Moon

Cricket woke the next morning curled in the chair beside the fire, wrapped in the quilt. The geography book was still open in her lap. She was relieved to see that Birdie and Julian had returned safely, twined together before the cold hearth. She stretched and yawned. Birdie raised his head and put a finger to his lips.

“Ssshh,” he whispered. “He’s already asleep.”

“Are you all right?” she whispered back.

He nodded and gave her a grin, then lay down. He spooned himself against Julian and pulled him close. He sighed contentedly and closed his eyes.

Cricket spent the morning moving quietly about the cottage. The downstairs was one big airy room, spicy with the smell of herbs. It was divided in half by Giddeon’s large wooden work table, where he mixed his tinctures and cures. In front of this table was a sort of a store, with herbs and potions for sale, all neatly labeled and displayed on shelves. Behind the table was the kitchen and sitting area, dominated by a large stone fireplace at the back. Off to the side there was a door that led to the wooden lean to, which contained a pantry and a washroom.

Cricket explored the pantry. There she found potatoes and onions, beans and barley, all stored in clever wooden bins that opened on a hinge. She found butter in an earthenware crock, salt in a glass dish, carrots and turnips in a basket next to the window that looked out over the sunny garden. She built up the fire and went out to the rain barrel to fill an iron kettle with water. She set the kettle on to boil and busied herself chopping vegetables and throwing them into the pot to make soup. She meandered out into the garden, found parsley and dill and added them to the pot. The small stone house began to fill with a heavenly smell.

The bell above the front door jangled, startling her. She unlocked it cautiously to find a young housewife with a fretful baby in her arms and a wide eyed toddler clinging to her skirts.

“Hello,” Cricket said uncertainly.

“Isn’t Giddeon about?” the young woman asked anxiously. “Hush, hush” she added, jiggling the baby on her hip.

 “No,” said Cricket shyly. “I’m sorry. He’s not.”

“I be wanting something for little Lucan's cough. He’s been up all night.”

“I…..I don’t know,” said Cricket, wishing she could help. “Giddeon’s not here….. I…..” She looked at the baby in the young woman’s arms. The poor thing was red in the face and looked very unhappy. A little bubble of snot came out of his nose and he buried his face in his mother’s neck and snuffled.

“Giddeon gave us yarrow and coltsfoot when Nella had it last week, and it seemed to help. Don’t you have any of that?”

“I…..Let’s see,” said Cricket. She opened the door and let them in.

It wasn’t hard to find the herbs on Giddeon’s neatly labeled shelves. Cricket weighed out an ounce each on the iron balance and did them up little paper packets as she had seen Giddeon do. But she didn’t know what to charge.

“Two penny a packet is the usual for plain herbs,” the young woman replied, with an impatient edge to her voice. Little Lucan whimpered and she jiggled him once again.

“All right,” said Cricket. She accepted the coins and put them in the till box, and watched as the woman ushered her small family out the door with a jangle of the bell.

So it went. Most customers knew what they wanted, and knew the usual cost. For those who didn’t, Cricket just had to apologize and tell them to come back the next day. She measured out herbs for a calf with a sour stomach, decanted headache potions and cough cure into little blue bottles, and put the money she received into the till. Between customers she spread out the shells she had collected the day before, and started fashioning them into a set of cunning little dolls, using her maker's magic to glue everything together.

By evening Giddeon was well enough to come down and sit by the fire, wrapped in a quilt, and Julian also sat up, stretched enormously and said he was hungry. Cricket was very glad that she had made the soup. Birdie ran to the bakers for a loaf of bread. They sat round the fire and ate, and everyone said how delicious the soup was. Cricket, who had had never cooked a whole meal, all by herself, was very pleased.

After they ate, Loaldo said he’d see to the washing up, and Giddeon asked Birdie to play for them. Birdie got the tin guitar out of his pack and lovingly tuned it. He started to play, his fingers long and nimble over the strings, the music filling the stone house, beautiful and pure. The sun had set, and the flames of their small summer fire gave the room a gentle glow. Cricket sat in the firelight and watched her brother play, watched Julian watching her brother, watched Giddeon, listening intently to the music, his eyes, closed, his fingers steepled in front of his face, watched Loaldo moving quietly about the kitchen and she was content. Shadow perched on the mantel and surveyed the scene with satisfaction.

She was almost drifting off to sleep when there was a loud knock on the door. Loaldo went to open it, and in came a wiry man with a darkly tanned face and a red kerchief tied round his head. His white shirt and dark pants were travel stained and he was breathless from his climb up the hill. A gold hoop in his ear caught the light of the fire and sparkled.

“Mudshark,” Shadow croaked, and flapped his wings.

Mudshark looked over at the group sitting by the hearth and grinned a gap toothed grin. “There you are,” he said hoarsely. “I been a lookin' for you. Thought I might find you here.”

“Well met, old comrade,” Loaldo said, clapping him on the back. They all jumped up and gathered round him, and Cricket went to fetch him a bowl of soup. They sat him by the hearth and he told them the news from their village.

“How’d Calliope fare?” Julian asked at once.

Mudshark looked into Julian’s eyes and then turned away, and spoke into the fire.

“They burned her cottage,” he said, his voice far away. “They seized her, and tried her in the village square, as a witch and a deviant.”

Julian was looking at Mudshark without blinking, his face very pale. Birdie reached out and put a steadying hand on his knee.

“They were going to burn her at the stake,” Mudshark went on. “Well, they had it in for her - that was obvious. But it’s all right,” he added, seeing the stricken look on Julian’s face. “Calliope’s a clever one, that’s for sure.” He grinned at Julian. “They were busy building the pyre,” said Mudshark. ”Gathering wood and brush from all over, setting a stake in the ground to tie her to, well, that’s the way these things are done. Calliope was chained to the fountain in the village square.”

“What happened?” asked Birdie, his voice low, his hand anchored to Julian’s knee.

“Well,” said Mudshark. “I don’t reckon Calliope was going to let those Brotherhood soldiers get the better of her. They were all busy with the pyre, you know, and no one was paying much attention to Calliope herself.”

“And?” Julian said.

“When they went to fetch her, Calliope was gone Just a pile of old rags. The chains were empty and there was a raven peeking its head out from underneath an old wool shawl.”

“A raven?” said Julian.

“A raven,” said Mudshark with certainty. “Black as soot. And you could see - I don’t know how, but I was sure, that raven was Calliope. She gave me a look, a look just like she would have in human form, and it said, plain as day, _find the children and let them know._ Then, she was gone, flying up over the spire of the church and into the hills.”

“But - where’d she go?” asked Julian.

Mudshark looked over at Julian then, and met his eye. He shrugged.

“Where is she?” Julian asked again. “Why didn’t she come here?”

“Sorry Julian,” Mudshark said softly. “I can’t tell you any more than that.”

They all sat in silence, taking in the news.

“What about ... our mother?” asked Cricket in a small voice.

“Amanita?” said Mudshark. “She’s all right, I reckon. There was a fire in her front room, but the house is still standing. Business is good, I’d imagine, with all those soldiers in town.”

“Oh,” said Cricket.

“Toldja not to worry, “ said Birdie softly.

Mudshark talked for a long time. Mostly the village was all right. A few houses and stores had been burned, but no one had been seriously hurt. The Brotherhood had taken over the Wool Merchants Hall, and were using it as a kind of courthouse and hearing room. Several of the older boys in the village had been conscripted, including Birdie's old nemesis, Berel the baker’s boy. Mudshark said he seemed proud and exited to be going off to the soldier’s life. The soldiers had gone through every house, there had been a book burning in the village square. The soldiers were posted throughout the village now, keeping watch, but they let people go about their business, and as long as folks kept their heads down and did as they were ordered, they were all right. Taxes had gone up, naturally, and some people were going to have to struggle, to meet the demands of the collectors.

After he ate, Mudshark hunkered down by the fire. He said that his own house by the river had been spared, and he’d catch a barge back up to Clay Country in the morning. He pulled his cloak over his head, and soon he was snoring loudly.

 

********

After everyone was settled down by the hearth, Giddeon and Loaldo went upstairs. They lit the lamp and got out the Grimoire. They poured over it together, turning the brittle pages. The ancient book was filled with runes and spells and beautiful illustrations. Some pages told tales and fables, some were blank - doubtless needing an additional spell or password to reveal their secrets. One page, stained with many pricks of blood, caused Giddeon to shudder, and turn quickly past it. The Grimoire held many dangers, as well as many wonders.

After several hours Giddeon’s eyes grew heavy and he rested his head on Loaldo’s shoulder. Loaldo brushed the hair from his pale forehead. “It’s enough for tonight,” he said gently. ”You should be in bed. You still need sleep, the night after the moon.”

He shut the Grimoire decisively and locked the clasp with a soft click.

“Let's have a drink,” he said.

Giddeon sat in the window seat, and looked out at the sleeping harbor, silvery with moonlight, while Loaldo got out a bottle of currant wine and two small glasses. He sat against the wall, settled Giddeon close against him and handed him a glass. “To the moon,” he said, raising his glass to that silvery orb for a moment before he drank.

“To the moon," Giddeon agreed, raising his own glass as well to that stern mistress, who never, ever gave him a month off. But it was over now, for twenty seven days, and he relaxed into Loaldo’s warm body and felt the heat of the wine coursing through him.

“If Cricket is the one…..we should let her know,” said Giddeon.

“It would be nice to know the rest of the prophecy,” responded Loaldo.

“Yes, indeed,” said Giddeon. “Problem is, we can’t seem to find it.”

“I wish Calliope would show,” said Loaldo, impatiently. “I’m sure she knows that book inside, outside and upside down. If it was her grandmother’s…...there may be all sorts of hidden codes and passwords. The kind of thing only a family member would know.”

“I wonder where the grandmother got it,” said Giddeon.

“Wonder if we could find her.”

 “Wonder if she’s still alive.”

“I wonder if Calliope’s still alive.”

“She’s alive,” said Giddeon decisively. ”Calliope’s tough. A survivor. And you heard Mudshark’s tale. She turned into a raven, and flew away.”

“Where is she then?” said Loaldo, with worry in his eyes. “Why hasn’t she come here, where she sent her son, where she sent the Grimoire?”

“I don’t know,” replied Giddeon, shaking his head. “I just don’t know.”

They both sat and drank, contemplating the harbor. Loaldo refilled their glasses.

“I guess we understand one thing at least,” said Loaldo.

“What’s that?” said Giddeon. He snuggled back against Laoldo’s warm, reassuring body.

“Why they tortured Calliope, all those years ago - why they killed her poor little baby.”

“Do you think they knew?” said Giddeon.

“It kind of makes sense if they did,” said Loaldo grimly. “They want the Nonnery, that’s for sure. If they’d had even a hint that she knew where it was, I…...well…. I can see them being pretty merciless.”

“What are we going to do?” said Giddeon.

“I don’t know,” said Loaldo. He took a long drink of his wine.

“We should ask the glass,” said Giddeon.

“Sry it?”

“Yes,” said Giddeon slowly. “Yes, I think so. Gather them all round, and let them see….. What the glass has to show. Maybe it will show us all…. a way forward.”

“All right,” said Loaldo. “When?”

“Tomorrow night,” said Giddeon. “Sunset. When are you going back to the city?”

Loaldo shrugged. “Probably soon,” he said. “I shouldn’t miss too many Brotherhood meetings, especially now, with everything that’s happening. I hate to leave you though."

“You know I’ll be all right,” said Giddeon. “I always am. But I don’t want you to go.”

“Move to Isinglass,” Loaldo said. He bent his head, and nuzzled into the back of Giddeon’s neck, and kissed it

“I…..”

“I mean it Giddeon. Please…...I want you with me. Sell this place. We’ll set you up on Broad Street. You’ll do fine there - better than here.”

“Loaldo……You know I can’t leave.”

“Why not?”

“The resistance needs me here.”

“The resistance,” said Loaldo with a frustrated sigh.

“Its important,” said Giddeon.

“More important than me?”

“No….. just….resisting the Brotherhood is my life’s work. I can’t just give up my role here, my connections.”

“I mean it Giddeon,” Loaldo said. “I love you. We’re going to have a child to raise. A baby.”

“Half a child.”

Loaldo smiled at that. “Better than none,” he said.

Giddeon said nothing but looked at him searchingly.

“I want you with me, Giddeon. Every night. We belong together. We’re going to be a family.”

Giddeon smiled at that and turned, and kissed Loaldo’s warm mouth, there in the window seat, looking out over the peaceful town, asleep in the moonlight. He felt his heart surge with a wild kind of hopefulness at the possibilities that lay ahead - a life with Loaldo, the two of them together, a family, with a child to raise. It was a dream he had barely dared to dream and now it seemed as if it might really happen and Giddeon realized that yes, this was indeed what he wanted, what he had always wanted.

They kissed for a long time, until at last Loaldo got up and took Giddeon’s hand to lead him to bed. But Giddeon remained seated and pulled Loaldo back down so they were seated side by side

“You should let Saskia know,” he said quietly, looking into Loaldo’s eyes.

“Let Saskia know? Know what?”

“That you’re working for the resistance.”

“Oh,” said Loaldo. “I don’t really think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not.”

“Tell me. I want to know what you think.”

“It's a bad idea because she might call the whole thing off.”

“Better to know now,” Giddeon said. “If she can't tolerate that, best know now. Once you're married, once she’s pregnant - you can’t not tell her Loaldo.”

“Why not?”

“Because….. I don’t know. It wouldn’t be fair. You’re planning to raise a child together, you can’t keep that kind of thing a secret.”

“Do you trust her?” said Loaldo.

“I…..don’t know,” said Giddeon hesitantly. “I….I haven’t seen Saskia in years.”

“Well, I’m not sure that I trust her either.”

“You’re planning to marry her.”

Loaldo shrugged. “A marriage of convenience,” he replied, repeating Saskia’s words, remembering smooth blond hair, her cool grey eyes. “I don’t know her all that well, do I? I have no idea what she'd do with that kind of information. She could call the whole thing off. Or even worse, she could betray us.”

“So you were planning to go ahead with this marriage and just…..keep it all a secret?”

“Yes….no….I don’t know,” Loaldo squirmed uncomfortably. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

“What about me?”

“Well I wasn’t planning on telling her about you being in the resistance either.”

“Not that.”

“What then?”

Giddeon just looked at him for a long time. At last he said, “That I’m a werewolf.”

“Giddeon,” said Loaldo. “No. That’s your secret. That’s between you and me. There’s no point in telling her that.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” Giddeon insisted.

“No,“ said Loaldo. “No. She doesn’t need to know that. It's none of her business.”

“Her child, your child is going to be living with us, at least part of the time. That’s the idea, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Loaldo.

“So then, how can you not tell her. She needs to know.”

“Stop, Giddeon, just stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop nattering.” Loaldo got up and went back to the desk and looked down at the Grimoire where it lay locked and silent, holding its secrets.

“I’m not nattering,” said Giddeon. “This is important.”

“I don’t want to ruin it.”

“If she can’t accept these things, it’s ruined before you've even started.”

“I barely know her.”

Giddeon shook his head in frustration.

“I have no idea how she’d react to all of that," said Loaldo. "I don’t even know what her politics are. For all I know she’s the Brotherhood’s biggest supporter.”

“Great basis for a marriage.”

“Giddeon.”

“What?”

“I love you.” Loaldo’s face was lined with worry, but his dark eyes were indeed burning with love.

Giddeon felt his heart wrench. “I love you, too,” he whispered.

“I don’t want this to come between us,” Loaldo said fiercely.

“ _Ah Loaldo_ ,” Giddeon thought sadly, and he felt hot tears burn his eyes. “ _It already has.”_

But he said nothing, and let Loaldo draw him up and into his arms. He let Loaldo kiss away his tears, and lead him to bed. He let Loaldo hold him and caress him and comfort him. He let Loaldo’s body speak to him, and let his body speak back, and let himself be carried away, for a little while, from all his troubles and fears.


	22. The Scrying Glass

The next day a wind blew in from the south and they had a summer rain, warm, soft and steady. There was no working in the garden. Loaldo went off to the warehouses, kissing Giddeon goodbye and whistling under his breath, the white feather in his hat glowing bright against the gloomy sky. Jupiter came round, and ate her porridge. She was delighted with the little seashell puppets that Cricket had made, and the two girls sequestered themselves in a corner, making up all manner of stories and adventures for them. The age difference between them seemed to matter not at all. Cricket liked the opportunity to follow this sweet dark eyed creature back into the childhood world of imagination, a world, she sensed that she was quickly leaving behind. Jupiter looked at her with glistening worshipful eyes. All of Cricket’s suggestions for their play were quickly incorporated into her own busy mind, and she was pushed to new heights of pretend that she had never before experienced.

Giddeon set the boys to reading and studying some of his books, but Birdie soon grew restless. As the tide was low he sent them down to the shore, to dig for clams and mussels and to fish for flounder off of Bloody Rock, which he knew would be standing alone, covered with seaweed and barnacles amid the mud flats.

“Mind the tide now,” he warned them as he handed them baskets and clam rakes and oilskins. “Don’t get caught out there. The waters rise fast, once the ebb tide turns.” They went off, happily enough. Giddeon watched them go, through the mist and rain, and turned back into the cottage.

He got out the Grimoire again, unlocked it with the key around his neck and set it on his workbench. He spent the day poring through it, while the girls played beside the hearth, filling the stone house with their happy chatter. Custom was sparse in the rain, so he had lots of time, but he did not find what he was seeking.

As evening fell, he put the book away with a heavy sigh. He sent Jupiter home, lest her mother worry and started setting out food for dinner. Loaldo arrived, an unspoken question in his eye, but Giddeon answered it with a quick shake of his head.

Loaldo drew Giddeon into the small pantry beside the kitchen. “Any luck with the Nonnery today?” he asked.

“None at all,” replied Giddeon with a frustrated sigh.

“The scrying then,” Loaldo said.

“It will have to be,” Giddeon replied.

The summer days were still long, and luckily the rain clouds cleared away, and the sun came out, low and golden in the western sky. The boys came back with a bucket laden with mussels and clams, and two flat flounders, looking blankly out at the world through their single glassy eye. Giddeon explained how their heads rotated when they were fingerlings so they could lie flat on the sea bottom, and their other eye was reabsorbed into their bodies.

They made as feast with the seafood and new vegetables from the garden. As they were finishing dinner, Giddeon spoke.

“There is something we must do,” he announced.

“What is it?” asked Julian, looking at him sharply. “Is it something to do with finding Calliope?”

“Perhaps,” Giddeon replied.

“Or finding my father?” asked Cricket.

“Or Cricket’s key - finding out what it’s for?” asked Birdie.

“Perhaps,” Giddeon. replied. “Perhaps. I believe all these things may be related. That is what I am hoping to do. Find the pattern to the whole.”

“Can you read the cards?” asked Cricket. “I can - a little,” she added shyly.

“Are you going to cast the sticks?” asked Birdie, with excitement. “Like we saw in the town square the other day?”

“Maybe another glimpie?” guessed Julian. “Maybe we can wish for answers.”

Giddeon smiled at the hopeful faces looking at him so intently. He had a sudden shadow of fear - a premonition. These three young people had much to do, and many hard roads to travel before they would find all the answers they sought.

“We’re going to scry it,” Loaldo said gruffly. Giddeon looked over at him, saw his face had gone pale, saw a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Whatever Giddeon had felt, Loaldo had seen it too, and probably in a lot more detail than he himself had.

Giddeon rose. “I’ll get the glass,” he said.

********

Cricket, Birdie and Julian cleared the table and washed the dishes, while Giddeon set up the glass in the western window that looked out over the sea. Loaldo sat in his chair, not speaking, His eyes were distant and unfocused. Cricket had seen the way the two men looked at her, felt the change in the warm relaxed atmosphere in the room. What were they scrying for? What were they going to see?

Her mother had dabbled in reading the crystal ball. Well it was part of what she had on offer at the crooked house by the river. Sex for the men, divination and card reading for the women. Cricket herself had gazed into the glass, sometimes for hours on end, but she had never seen anything except swirling reflections. And last year, during All Soul’s Eve, her mother and her friends had made her walk backwards up the stairs, holding a candle and looking into a mirror. To see the man she was destined to marry, they had said. Cricket had been scared - scared that instead of a handsome man she would see the visage of the grim reaper, which would mean that she would die before she had a chance to marry anyone. But all she saw in the mirror was swirling shadows and reflections and she had descended the stairs, disappointed.

She was roused from her thoughts by Giddeon’s voice.

“It’s time,” he said.

Giddeon had set up the glass on a small table beside the window, where the sun was setting over the water. He was wearing leather gloves, adjusting the angle of the glass, in its ornate silver stand, so that the shining orange rays shone directly into it.

“Scrying is an art,” Gideon said. His voice was soft, but he spoke with authority, and he captured the attention of everyone in the room. They all drew in, a little closer to where the glass stood in the window, forming a half circle around it. Cricket felt a shiver go down her spine, and she shifted closer to Birdie, who stood beside her. “The glass always reveals,” Giddeon went on, “but it does not always show us what we wish to see. It is important to empty your mind and watch the vision unfold without attachment. Listen to your heart, as you watch the images, and go where it leads you.” He removed his gloves, took Loaldo’s hand, and the two men chanted an incantation together. Giddeon passed his hand over the glass three times. Birdie reached out and took Cricket’s hand. She squeezed it gratefully and reached out for Julian’s hand on her other side. They all stared at the swirling shadows on the smooth surface of the glass, as they gradually sorted themselves out and took shape.

As the shadows cleared, Cricket saw an old woman, wearing black robes, her hair covered by a veil. She was sitting in a cave of some kind, made of purple tinted crystals, which emitted a low light. She could hear water splashing, off in the distance, as if there was a fountain or a waterfall just out of view. At first she thought the woman was Calliope but when she started walking Cricket could see that she was truly old, much older and stiffer than the Calliope she knew. The woman held out an arm, and Cricket saw her wrinkled hand, ancient and gnarled. Cricket felt as if she was actually inside the cave with the old woman, she felt the dampness in the air. It felt moist and life giving, not dank as she might have expected. The violet light, reflected off the many crystals that surrounded them, flickered all about, moving over every surface in shimmering waves. The sound of running water was growing closer as the old woman walked slowly, painstakingly over the rocky ground.

Suddenly the air in the cave stirred. There was a fluttering of wings, and a large black raven landed on the old woman's outstretched hand. The bird started speaking in a series of harsh guttural squawks that Cricket could not understand, although the woman appeared to be listening intently. When the raven had finished, she turned and looked directly out of the swirling shadows of the glass. Her face was ancient, lined and wrinkled, and her eyes were two black holes.

“Julian,” she said in a rasping voice. “Child of my granddaughter. Wolf Boy. Bring me the book and the key. Keep them safe. Bring me the girl and her brother. You are their guardian. They have a destiny to fulfill. You must come now. I am your only refuge.” The raven on her hand flapped its wings and cawed loudly.

Suddenly there was a clatter in the room. The table was kicked over, the beautiful egg shaped glass went flying across the room. It landed on the floor and shattered into thousands of shimmering fragments. Loaldo had fallen over, kicked the table and now he lay rigid on the floor, his eyes closed, froth coming from his mouth. He was convulsing violently. Cricket saw him vividly in the dim violet light that still lingered in the room. Then the light faded. The sun had set and the room was cast in darkness. Cricket could not see anything, but she heard scrambling noises, the rhythmic sound of Loaldo’s convulsions that seemed to go on and on. She smelled the rank smell of piss. Loaldo had wet himself.

“A light Birdie!” came Giddeon’s ragged voice. “We need a light!”

Suddenly the room was flooded in a warm yellow light. Birdie held a ball of shimmering fire cupped in his hands. Loaldo had stopped shaking and lay so still that Cricket thought maybe he was dead. Julian was at his head, listening for his breathing and then, as he had done with little Rosie Pulsifer so long ago, he put his mouth to Loaldo’s and breathed into it. He drew away, listened for a moment and again he breathed into Loaldo’s mouth.

Loaldo gave an enormous gasping breath in. He sat up, groping blindly and Giddeon flung an arm around him, to steady him. Dark foam trickled from his mouth. It was blood. He must have bit his tongue in the fit. He groaned hugely, an unearthly sound.

Suddenly his eyes popped open and they were rolled back in his head, so that all Cricket could see was the whites. He took another gasp, and spit some bloody foam onto the floor. Then, he spoke.

“Soldiers,” he said in a hoarse, rasping whisper, a voice completely unlike his own. Cricket felt terror grip her heart when she heard that unearthly voice, as if a demon were speaking. A demon’s voice coming from Loaldo’s body. “They’re coming for the girl. The book, the girl and the key!” Suddenly, his eyes eyes came into focus and he looked right at Cricket. “Run!” he shouted. “Run now They’re coming up the hill! Get out!”

And just as he spoke the bell in the cathedral started to toll, a low persistent tone, a warning. Loaldo’s head slumped against Giddeon and he did not talk or respond at all.

Giddeon laid Loaldo down beside the hearth. He put his hand on his chest to check for the rise and fall of his breathing. Satisfied that Loaldo was all right for the moment, he jumped up and went to Julian and embraced him. “Thank you!” he said.

“Is he….?”

“I think he'll be all right now, said Giddeon. “It was a fit. He has them sometimes. It’s part of having the sight. But you must go,” he commanded urgently“Go now! There isn't any time. You must flee.”

In a frantic rush they pulled on shoes and shouldered their packs. Giddeon ran to the pantry and filled a bag with provisions and thrust it into Cricket’s arms. He swiftly took the key from around his neck and put it around Julian’s and stuffed the Grimoire into his pack. He went to the till, grabbed a handful of silver out of it, and handed it to Birdie, who put it into his pocket. Then he hurried them out the back door.

“Where should we go?” asked Julian, frantically.

“The raven we saw in the glass was Calliope,” Giddeon replied. “I understood what she said. The old woman is her grandmother. Bring the Grimoire to her.”

“Where?” asked Julian.

“Mount Caldor, in the Caspardian mountains. Due north,” Giddeon said. “It's the northernmost part of Tellurium, above the Clay Country. The Caspardians are good people they will help you, especially if they know you are fighting the Brotherhood.” He quickly went to his work table and drew something on a piece of parchment and handed it to Julian. “Show them this,” he said. “But reveal it only to those you can trust.”

“What is it?”

“It's the symbol of the Resistance. Those who are fighting the Brotherhood will recognize it, and give you aid.” Beside the hearth Loaldo moaned and stirred. “If you run into trouble seek out Loaldo in the city, in Isinglass. He will return there when he is well.” Giddeon went to the hearth and picked up one of the broken fragments of glass that lay there, all that was left of the beautiful scrying glass. He handed it to Cricket. “Take this,” he said. “The glass was elven wrought and it may be useful.” He kissed her on the forehead once, and Cricket felt the rune of protection that Calliope had put on her wrist burn, just for a moment. Her eyes filled with tears. She did not want to leave this kind man, and the haven he had provided for them.

“Go," Giddeon said. “You mustn't tarry a moment longer!”

And they were racing out the garden they had so happily cared for and into the night.


	23. A Boy in a Cave

They ran. They ran and ran, clutching their hastily stuffed packs, their breathing sharp and painful. Behind them they heard shouts and screams, the sound of windows breaking. They smelled smoke. Galwyn was being invaded. The whole scene felt oddly familiar. They had just done this a few weeks back, fleeing Calliope’s cottage, and now they were doing it again.

The summer night, hot and still, was loud with the sound of insects.The Grimoire, hastily stuffed in the top of his pack, was digging into Julian’s back. Cricket stumbled and fell. She cried out. She had a gash in her knee, dripping blood. Julian tore off a strip from the hem of her skirt, and bound up the wound. They went on.

They climbed up into the mountains that surrounded Galwyn like the sides of a bowl, leaving the chaos and the flickering lights from the burning buildings behind them Cricket was breathing hard, wincing at every step. Julian took her arm, and she leaned on him. The moon shone bright, lighting the trail before them. No one seemed to be following them, and they slowed their pace. At last they spied a rocky crevice in a stone cliff that looked promising, as if there might be a cave they could hide in, and get some rest.

“I’ll go first,” Birdie whispered to the other two. “Wish I had my knife. Stay close behind me. Watch out for Crick,” he added. He gave Julian’s shoulder a quick squeeze, then cupped his hands together and an orange flame appeared within them. Holding the fire aloft, moving cautiously, he peered into the cave.

There stood a dark figure, a tall boy, his black hair whipping around his face, his feet spread apart. He had a long stick raised in his hand.

He paused for only a moment, then he leaped forward and cracked the stick over Birdie’s head.

Birdie dropped the orange flame and the cave went completely dark.

The boy put up a good fight, but it was three against one, and it wasn’t long before they had him face down on the sandy floor. Birdie had his arms twisted behind him, Julian held his feet and Cricket sat on his back.

“Crick - Grab - something - to tie him with,” gasped Birdie. There was a tearing sound, as Cricket tore another strip off the hem of her long suffering skirt. Together in the dark they tied the strange boy’s hands behind his back while he writhed and kicked and spat.

Once they had him tied, Birdie lit the flame again, and they sat him up and looked him over. His face was covered with blood, his long black hair was in his eyes. Julian was also bleeding from a gash on his cheek and Birdie was rubbing the back of his head where a large bump was starting to form.

Julian pushed the hair back from then strange boy’s eyes. The boy spat in his face.

“Who are you?” asked Birdie, roughly.

“I know him,” said Cricket. “He’s the boy with the violin, from the market square in Galwyn. Don’t you remember? Look there’s his violin.” She pointed to where the violin sat leaning against the wall of the cave, in a black case.

“He is,” said Julian peering at the boy’s bloody face. “I recognize him.”

“What’s your name, boy?” asked Birdie roughly, and he kicked him.

“Birdie, stop!” said Cricket. “He won’t hurt us.”

“What d'ya mean?” said Birdie. “He just cracked me over the head with a stick.”

“He was probably just scared,” said Cricket. “You remember how he played on the violin, dontcha? He’s all right.” She wiped the blood off his face with her sleeve, and the boy winced in pain. “Sorry,” Cricket said. “I think you broke your nose.” The boy spat out a mouthful of blood. “Get him some water,” instructed Cricket.

“We don’t have any,” replied Julian.

“I do,” croaked the strange boy. “There’s some beside my pack.”

Cricket got up and found his water skin. She held it to his mouth, and tipped it up so he could drink.

“Thanks,” he said when she was done.

“Didja break any teeth?” she asked with concern.

He ran his tongue over his teeth.

“No. Just my nose, I think.”

“What’s your name?” she asked.

He looked at her warily. “What’s yours?” he replied.

“Cricket,” she said, without hesitation. “And this is my brother Birdie and our friend Julian. Now tell us yours.”

The boy hesitated, just long enough that Cricket could tell he was thinking up a fake name. “Derrick,” he replied. “Now untie me.”

“No,” said Birdie and Julian together.

“What if he promises not to cause any trouble?” said Cricket.

“Nope,” said Birdie. “Even if he don’t fight no more he could still run off and betray us.”

“I won’t do that,'' said Derrick in a low voice.

“Easy to say,” said Birdie. “Hard to prove.”

“I won’t,” said the boy again. “I hate them - if that’s what you're wondering - the Brotherhood. I’m running away from them too.”

“How do we know you’re not lying?” challenged Birdie.

“I’m not,” replied the boy.

“Prove it!”

“I can’t,” he said. He rolled over and turned his back to them.

“Wait!” said Cricket. She tugged at his shoulder, and made him get up and face them again. “Tell us more. What are you doing here. Where are you from?”

Again, the boy hesitated, and Cricket could tell he was about to tell them another lie. But she wasn’t afraid of him. The fight seemed to have gone out of him. “Where’d you learn to play the violin like that?” she asked softly. “Why are you playing on street corners? Didja have to run away, like us?”

********

Giddeon spent the next morning cleaning up the wreckage the soldiers had left behind. They had torn his house apart. The stone floor was covered with shattered glass and spilled potions, the books lay face down in the mess. Torn pages littered the floor. Giddeon, terrified for Loaldo, had not even noticed the damage to his precious library until the light of day. Now, with Loaldo fast asleep and breathing steadily in the bed upstairs he started setting things to rights. He salvaged what pages he could, carefully wiping the torn and stained papers with a cloth and spreading them out to dry. Some pages were beyond saving and these he put regretfully in the cold fireplace.

After several hours of this heartbreaking work he heard Loaldo descending the stairs. Loaldo looked about the destroyed room, then went and sat heavily in the chair by the hearth.

“What happened?” he asked groggily.

“Brotherhood soldiers,” said Giddeon. “We were raided.”

“Where are…..?”

“The children? They got away. “

“And the Nonnery?”

“They managed to take it with them. Those soldiers were definitely looking for it. I don’t know how they knew it was here.”

“I feel as if I’ve been on a giant bender,” Loaldo said, putting his hand to his forehead.

“You had a fit.”

“Oh.”

“How’re you feeling?”

“My head is killing me.” He grimaced and moved his tongue in his mouth. “My mouth tastes like blood.” He spat into the fireplace.

“You bit your tongue,” said Giddeon. “Here, let me look.” Loaldo stuck his tongue out, and Giddeon inspected it carefully. There were rough bite marks along the side. “It’ll heal all right,” he said. “It’ll just be sore for a few days. I’ll fetch you tea.”

Giddeon went into the ruined pantry. Whatever food the soldiers hadn’t taken was scattered on the floor. Beans and barley crunched under his feet as he walked. He put together a tray with a few things the soldiers had missed, then went out and started a fire, put the kettle on to boil. He handed Loaldo a cup of water.

“Here, rinse your mouth,” he said. “There isn’t much to eat, but I found some bread and a few apples. Most of the stores are gone.”

Loaldo took the water and swished it in his mouth, wincing as the liquid touched his sore tongue. “How did they….. get away?” he asked.

“You had a vision,” Giddeon replied. “You saw that the soldiers were coming, and warned us, and I made them leave. Gave them the Nonnery and shoved them out the back door.”

“Where are they going to go?”

“They’re going to look for the old woman, Calliope’s grandmother, the one we saw in the glass.”

“She told them to bring her the book.”

“Yes.”

“How will they survive?”

“I gave them some money and whatever food I could quickly stuff into a sack They’re resourceful. If they can avoid the Brotherhood soldiers they’ll be all right.”

“They have to do this alone.”

“I know,” said Giddeon.

“Maybe we could look in the scrying glass - see how they’re getting on.”

“No,” said Giddeon. “We can’t.”

“Why not?” countered Loaldo. “It wouldn’t exactly be interfering. Just checking on them. It would probably work.....” His voice trailed off as he saw the stricken look on Giddeon’s face.

“The glass is broken,” Giddeon said. “Ruined. You kicked it over when you had your fit and it is shattered beyond repair.” Loaldo looked at him with horror and Giddeon felt his throat grow tight. The scrying glass was more than a useful tool. It was a family treasure, that had been given to him by his father for safekeeping, Now it was lost forever.

The kettle boiled, and Giddeon made a tea of willow bark and bloodroot and handed it to Loaldo to drink. He made a face. “It’s bitter,” he complained.

“It will help with the headache,” Giddeon replied. “Drink it.”

A knock at the back door. Giddeon crossed the litter strewn floor and opened it cautiously. Degon and Clive stood on the doorstep, looking about anxiously. Giddeon let them in.

They had traveled up to Clay Country, to Calliope’s village, and found the town on lockdown, with a Brotherhood soldier on every corner. They had heard of Calliope’s narrow escape, and returned to tell the tale.

“Then we come home and find Galwyn in an uproar,” Clive said in his husky voice. He was a thin weedy man, dressed in dark robes, with a mournful expression on his face and heavy earth stained boots. He worked as the town’s gravedigger.

“Windows broke, shops closed, soldiers everywhere,” added Degon. He was a good deal shorter than Clive, heavyset and round bellied, with a thick dark growth of beard. He served up beer and washed out tankard’s at one of the cheap alehouses that lined the riverbank.

Loaldo started up, then staggered and put a hand to his forehead. “The warehouse!” he said. “Did they attack the warehouse?”

“They wouldn’t,” said Giddeon. “They’ll leave the property of the house of Thorne alone, I’d imagine.”

“Did you see anything?” Loaldo demanded of Degon and Clive.

Degon shook his head. “We didn’t pass by the docks,” he replied. “We saw the state of things in town and came right here.”

“I must go,” said Loaldo. “He looked at Giddeon meaningfully. “If I don’t show up at the warehouse it will look very suspicious. You know that.”

“Loaldo, no. You’re ill.”

Loaldo shook his head, to clear it. “That tea was brilliant,” he said. “I feel better already. I'll just dunk my head in the water barrel and I’ll be all right.” And he headed out the back door.


	24. Derrick

The story that Derrick told seemed believable enough. He came from one of the farm towns outside of Isinglass, on the plains of Moran. His mother died when he was a baby, his father was a drunk who beat him. He’d been apprenticed to a carpenter, and he’d been glad of the chance to get away. But the carpenter was another drunk, not much better than his father, and cruel to boot. He’d passed a bad few years in the thrall of that man, hungry, overworked and cold. At last he’d decided to run away.

“Where’d you get the violin then?” asked Birdie. “And where’d you learn to play like that?”

Derrick hesitated, the way he did, and Cricket could tell he was getting ready to tell them another fib. “My grandfather, he replied. “My mother’s father. It was all he had to give me. But he was kind to me, and he taught me how to play, before he died.”

They left Derrick tied in the cave and went outside into the moonlight, the three of them, to discuss it among themselves.

“He’s lying,” said Birdie at once.

Privately Cricket agreed with him, but she wanted them to untie the boy . “How do you know?” she challenged her brother.

“He talks different,” said Birdie. “Not like us. He talks fine - like Loaldo. Like a rich man’s son.”

“That could be because he’s from near Isinglass,” said Julian. “Maybe everyone talks like that, in those parts.”

“His hands,” said Birdie. “They’re soft. Smooth. Not a carpenter’s hands.”

“Maybe,” said Julian thoughtfully.

“And those tunes he played that afternoon on the square. Those weren’t country fiddle tunes. Not like we play at home. He didn’t learn to play like that from no farmer,” said Birdie decisively.

“You’re probably right,” agreed Julian. “But he could be lying and still be all right. Maybe he’s just scared.”

“What’re we gonna do with him?” asked Cricket. “We can’t just keep him tied up in that cave forever.”

“We could leave him there,” said Birdie darkly. “He wouldn’t be no trouble to us if we left him there to die.”

“Birdie, no!” said Cricket, horrified that he would even think that. “We can’t”

“What do you think we should do then?” asked Birdie. “Just untie him, and let him kill us in our sleep? Or go running to the Brotherhood and tell them where we are?”

“He’s not going to do that,” said Cricket hotly.

“How do you know?” countered Birdie, just as hot.

“I just do!” she insisted. For a moment, Julian thought she was going to call him stupe, their old childish insult for each other. They had come to a standstill, neither one willing to back down.

“We’ll untie him,” Julian decided.

“Bad idea bro,” said Birdie at once.

Julian held up his hands. “We’ll untie him, but we’ll search his stuff first,” said Julian. “Any weapons we find, we’ll confiscate. And we’ll keep watch, all right? I’ll go first,” he added.

Birdie didn’t look happy, but he nodded once, curtly, and turned and walked back into the cave.

*********

Julian took the first watch, Cricket the second, Birdie the third. When Birdie’s turn came, Cricket shook him and he sat up and yawned, sleepy but determined. He did not want to let the strange boy get away with anything.

But Derrick slept, uneventfully and deeply, curled in a ball, his face veiled by his dark hair. His frame was long and skinny, as if he’d grown a lot recently and the angles and curves of his body were still settling into their adult shape. He stirred in his sleep, and cried out once, as if he were dreaming, turned over and lay still again. A shaft of moonlight, coming in the cave entrance illuminated his pale face, and Birdie noticed, without really wanting to, that he was beautiful.

Who was he, this strange boy, and where had he learned to play the violin like that? Birdie remembered his fingers moving skillfully over the instrument, coaxing out haunting complex tunes. He had never heard anything like the music that boy had played, and Birdie wanted to hear it again.

But could he be trusted? There was more to his story, Birdie was sure.

Birdie thought about the events of last night, the old woman in the scrying glass, Loaldo’s fit, the Grimoire, their terrified flight. Cricket - her destiny - the key that Balthazar had given her. Cricket was special - Birdie had always known that. From the moment she was born, there was an aura of power about her. He remembered the night of her birth - his own terror, afraid his mother was dying as he listened in a corner - he remembered the comet streaking across the sky, Cricket’s newborn cry, Balthazar's triumphant laughter. But something had gone wrong, somehow, and Balthazar had disappeared and left them. The months after he left had been terrible, his mother mired in a sadness so deep she could barely move. But Birdie had never understood why, never understood what had happened.

And now that old witch up north was calling for Cricket - calling for Cricket, and the Grimoire, and they had to go.

Giddeon and Loaldo had had another name for the book - the Nonnery, but Birdie didn’t know what that meant. He thought about Giddeon and Loaldo - of the love and respect the two men had for each other - of the partnership they so clearly shared. Birdie knew that Julian saw them and hoped that someday he and Birdie could have something like that. But Birdie wasn’t so sure. He knew the road ahead of them was full of dangers, and they’d be lucky to survive. And if they did.....well, love, in his experience, had led only to betrayal.

He would do anything to protect them though - Julian and Cricket. He would do anything to see that the three of them got through what they had to - together. It was the one thing that was perfectly clear in his mind.

Everything was very still. The moon sank in the west, leaving the cave in complete blackness. Even the night insects had given up on their incessant buzzing and gone to bed, and the birds had not yet started singing. Birdie fought to stay awake. His eyes kept drifting closed, his head sinking down to rest on his arms which were folded across his knees. He shook himself, trying to wake himself up.

Eventually he drifted off. He startled awake. The darkness in the cave was leaching away, replaced by a greyish twilight. The strange boy, Derrick, was awake, staring at him with huge eyes in his pale face. They stared at each other for a long time.

“Tell me your real name,” Birdie whispered to him at last.

“Tell me yours,” replied the boy.

“It’s Birdie,” he said.

“No it’s not,” the boy said.

Birdie shrugged.

“That’s not even a real name,” the boy protested.

Birdie shrugged again. “Why’re you on the run then?” he asked. “Really?”

The boy who called himself Derrick looked at him a long moment. His pale blue eyes were focussed and intense, and there was an honesty to his face that made Birdie squirm uncomfortably. Maybe Cricket was right about him. Suddenly, against his better judgement, Birdie wanted to trust him.

“It’s better to say nothing than another lie,” Derrick said at last. “But, believe me, I hate the Brotherhood. I have my reasons. I won’t betray you to them.”

“Where are you going?” Birdie asked.

Derrick shrugged. “I did have to run away from home,” he said. “That part’s true. I had no choice in the matter.” He stared off at the wall of the cave. “I figure it’s best to keep moving. I try not to stay anyplace too long. I’m just…..going from town to town, playing for my supper.”

“You play well,” said Birdie in a low voice. “I…...I’d like to learn a few of those tunes.”

Derrick looked at him. “Do you play?” he asked.

Birdie felt self conscious suddenly. “Not like you…..” he said, shyly. “But I’ve got an old guitar a sailor gave me. Or, I had one,” he added, realizing that the tin guitar that Tobias had given him still sat beside Giddeon’s hearth where he had left it the night before. “I….I left it behind when we ran away.”

Birdie sat there, feeling sad about the loss of the guitar. At last he said, “I could ...pick out a few tunes. Just folk tunes… you know, nothing like what you were playing.”

“I.....I can show you some things - if you like,” said Derrick. He gave Birdie a shy smile, and his face changed, became softer and more open, and Birdie’s heart quickened .

*******

When daylight came on properly they unpacked everything and took stock of what they had. Their bow was still in one of the packs that they had grabbed in haste from Giddeon’s house. They still had the winter cloak and the wolfskin and the water flasks. They had the large turtle shell that Birdie had saved to make into a lute. These items had never been unpacked and now they felt lucky to have them. They had the that food Giddeon had shoved in a sack but it wasn’t much. Some seed cakes, a few dried apples, a hunk of cheese. Derrick had half a loaf of bread to his name.

“Wish we had a knife,” said Birdie, wistfully, looking over their meager collection of supplies.

“Wish we had a map,” said Julian.

“I know the map,” said Cricket.

“What?” said Birdie. “You don’t know the map, Crick. Don’t fib.”

“I’m not fibbing,” Cricket said. “I was looking at maps the whole night of the full moon, when you were out. I remember it pretty good.” She took a stick and started drawing in the dry sand of the cave.

She drew a rough map of Tellurium, including the mountain ranges and rivers, the cities and towns.

“That’s pretty good Crick,” said Julian, who had studied geography with Calliope, and remembered a little.

“Where’re we going then?” asked Birdie, interested in spite of himself.

“North,” said Cricket, pointing to the map. “That lady - Calliope's gran - said to go to her. She said we were in danger. And Giddeon told us where she was.”

“Mount Caldor in Caspardian Mountains,” said Birdie softly.

“Do you remember where that was Crick?” asked Julian.

Cricket shook her head, and stared at the map she had drawn. “Not sure,” she said.

“It’s somewhere in here,” said Derrick, poking his finger into the northern mountain range that Cricket had drawn.“There’s a pass,” he said. “The Lepidolite Pass. It’ll take you to the northeast. To the high mountain country, where the mines are.”

“How d’you know so much about it?” challenged Birdie. But Derrick turned away and wouldn’t say any more.

“We need a piece of paper- to copy this down on. We could - Oh!” Julian said, clutching the key around his neck. “The Grim-” But Birdie clocked him over the head, before he could say anything else.

“Not….in front of…..him,” Birdie said, nodding his head towards Derrick, who still had his back to them.

“Fine,“ Julian said, rubbing his head where Birdie had hit him. He looked at Cricket’s map one last time. “We’ll head north along the coast. At least if we stick by the sea we’ll be able to fish for our supper. Let’s get a move on.”

“Wait!” said Birdie. He gestured over to where Derrick stood, facing the cave wall. “What about him?”

“I dunno,” said Julian.

“Derrick,” said Cricket. “Do you want to come with us?”

Derrick turned around and looked at them all. He wasn’t a tall boy, and there wasn’t much to him but skin and bones. His eyes were a clear pale blue, and they burned with intensity. His dark hair hung in lank elflocks about his face. There was a purple bruise blooming under his left eye, and his elegant long fingered hands hung limply at his side.

“Yeah,” he said, looking around at all of their faces searchingly. “If you’ll have me with you. I’ve nowhere….. I have to be.”

“All right, then,” said Julain. He shouldered his pack and headed out of the cave. “Let’s go.”

The summer sun was shining down in all its glory. The insects of late summer were singing loudly. It was hot, especially after the cool darkness of the cave. Off in the distance they heard the persistent roll of the surf. They walked toward it. When they came out, on the high cliffs above the sea, roiling and toiling below them with its insistent music, they turned to the right. To the north.

They hadn’t been walking more than a few minutes when they heard a piercing cry above them. A flutter of wings. Julian looked upward. A sudden joy lit his face. He held out his hand, and a large falcon landed on it.

“What news, Shadow?” he cried.

“Julian!” croaked the bird. “Found you!”

“What of Giddeon and Loaldo?” cried Cricket. “Are they all right?”

Shadow nodded his head solemnly. “Good,” he replied. “Soldiers gone! House safe! No fire!”

“And Calliope?” asked Julian anxiously. “Any news?” But the bird just shut his eyes and shook his head. He flew from Julian’s hand and perched on a branch high in a pine tree. He waited patiently for them to move on and when they did he flew ahead, stopping frequently to give them a chance to catch up.

And so, with Shadow as a faithful companion they headed north, unsure what awaited them up the coast.


	25. The Amazing Brothers McBird

They followed the coast. They knew from the rough map that Cricket had drawn that the shoreline travelled north in a fairly straight line and it seemed the best way to navigate where they were headed. Besides, as Julian had pointed out, they could eat from the sea.

Derrick and Birdie had reached some kind of uneasy truce, and Cricket and Julian welcomed him into their midst happily enough. After the second night they stopped keeping watches. Julian, Birdie and Cricket all curled together in their warm nest, as they were used to doing, and Derrick rolled himself in his cloak on the other side of the fire.

It was a good thing they had the wolfskin and the cloak because the nights were growing chilly. During the day the woods were alive with the busy activity of squirrels and chipmunks, stowing away food for the winter, and the birds gathered in groups, eating berries and sour apples and twittering raucously. At night they heard wolves, howling up in the high mountains. They did all right for food. There were shellfish on the rocks at low tide, nuts in the woods, They fished at high tide, and caught mackerel and flounder. The cliffs above the ocean were covered with huckleberries and tiny sweet blueberries.The mornings were foggy, but once the fog burned off the days were dry and warm, the nights chilly and clear.

They came to a small fishing village, nestled along the shore. Fishgate, it was called. Birdie went into a tiny, dusty, notions shop and spent a good portion of the money Giddeon had given them on a knife and some lute strings. Derrick stood on a street corner and played. He made enough to buy them soup at a chowder house, and they sat on stools at a high round table, the four of them, and ate the creamy, savory soup in the busy place, surrounded by the delicious smells of cooking and the big booming voice of the cook, singing sea shanties as he labored in the kitchen.

“This is all right,” said Birdie, looking around the steamy, cheerful shop, busy with the clatter of cooking and eating.

“We’ll make more once we get that lute strung, and you can play along with me,” said Derrick.

That night around the campfire, Birdie started fashioning a stout stick of ash into a neck for the lute, using the knife he had bought in town to carve it. It took nearly a week for him to get it right, working away at it every chance he got. He had to carve the neck to just the right shape, whittle a tuning box and pegs. He sanded the wood as best he could, using a rough granite stone and some fine grit from a creek bed, until he got it smooth and shiny.

As he worked they planned their act. The Amazing Brothers McBird seemed to glitter and shine before their eyes, although as Cricket was quick to point out, that name actually applied to only one of them - Birdie. But she didn’t really mind, none of them did. Birdie’s happiness was contagious as they talked endlessly about what they would do. Birdie had a million plans and ideas, and the others were carried along in the tidal force of his vision. Cricket was happy because Birdie was happy, Julian was happy because Birdie pulled him close every night, with his warm breath on the back of his neck and held him as they slept. Derrick was happy because he felt a little more included by this tight little band as each day passed, and the miles fell away behind them.

It was a wild, unpopulated part of the country. The only habitations were a few tiny fishing villages and isolated farmsteads. They avoided these places as they made their way steadily north up the coast, living off the land as best they could.

Finally, one night, the neck of the lute was finished, and Cricket attached it to the turtle shell using her maker’s magic. Then, his eyes shining in the light of the fire, Birdie got out the strings that he’d bought, and started stringing the lute.

Once all the strings were in place, Derrick got out his violin and softly plucked the A string so Birdie could tune. Birdie turned the pegs slowly with an intense look of concentration on his face. His heart was fluttering wildly. Was the neck strong enough? Was Cricket’s magic going to hold it in place? He kept turning the pegs, plucking the strings, getting the harmonies just the way he wanted them, while the other three looked anxiously on.

At last, with a flourish, Birdie played a chord and the little clearing where they were camping was filled with a sweet sound. He played another chord, started to pluck out a song. Then Derrick lifted his violin to his chin, picked up his bow and started to play along.

They played for hours that night, filling the woods with sound, while Cricket and Julian listened. They clapped their hands when the tunes were fast and uplifting, sang along when they knew the words, listened, quietly when the embers burned low and the music turned soft and haunting.

“Now all we need is a big enough town,” said Birdie when at last he put the lute aside. “And then, we’ll start our act and make our fortune.”

*******

For the next few days they progressed steadily up the coast. The days were filled with hard walking, but at night around the fire, they worked on their act. Julian and Cricket were making puppets out of what they could find - twigs and shells, pine cones and scraps of fabric. They put together a story with a beautiful princess locked in a tower, a fierce dragon, a wicked witch, a handsome prince. The dragon puppet came out particularly well - he had a long sinuous body, made of small pine cones strung together, and a hooked snout made from an old red crab claw. His wings were made of ferns and flapped realistically using a complex system of strings that Julian and Cricket had devised.

They came upon a larger town, where fish from all over the region was salted into barrels and sent out on heavy trading scows to the wide world. Here, at last was their chance to try out their act.

They found a spot in the busy market square and spread one of their cloaks between two trees to make a stage. Then, in a circus barker’s singsong, Birdie started calling out the merits of their show. “Come see the Amazing Brothers McBird,” he called. “The most clever puppets, the funniest story and the sweetest music that you ever heard in your entire life. Guaranteed. You won’t be disappointed.” He chatted up the small children that gathered around, and soon he had them seated in a squirming, impatient group in front of the makeshift stage, while their parents stood around in a semicircle and looked at the scene with wry amusement.

Then Birdie picked up his lute and began to play, and Derrick joined in. They had been practicing together and they were getting good. They caught the attention of the adults, who stopped their chatter and gossip to listen. They played two songs, the first one lively and lilting, the second, low and yearning.

“And now,” said Birdie in his best, most theatrical voice “The story of The Princess And The Dragon!”

Julian and Cricket, crouching behind the blanket started the puppet play. The princess, sweet and innocent was walking along the cliffs. But the witch, evil and cackling, was plotting against her. Why was the witch so angry? Because the princess’ very own father had snubbed her, years ago, at the princess’ christening. Clearly this witch was not one to forgive and forget.

The audience laughed at the funny bits, gasped appreciatively when the dragon came and snatched the princess away, applauded when at last the handsome prince came round and slew the dragon and kissed the princess. When the puppet show was over, Birdie and Derrick started the music. They played a lively dance tune, and Cricket, on a whim, grabbed Julian’s hand and drew him into the center of the audience and started to dance with him, the kind of country dance they had grown up with in their village. That was all it took, and soon the square in front of Derrick and Birdie was a mass of swirling couples, high stepping and twirling each other round. They kept the music going, bright and lively until the dancers grew tired and then the music turned quiet, sad and haunting.

“Do ye know _The Ballad of the Weeping Woman?”_ asked a crusty old farmer in the crowd.

“How about _The Ballad of the Bones_?”

Birdie knew them all. He led with the lute, and Derrick nimbly picked up the thread of the music, weaving in and around the tunes that Birdie laid down. Birdie sang the words in his sweet husky voice that had only recently deepened to that of a man. Cricket and Julian joined in, their voices rising in sweet harmonies, and in the end, when they passed the hat, it was heavy with coins.

They bought a chicken in the market, and bread and cheese and dried figs. They made camp in the cliffs above the sea and had a feast, with their fire keeping the ocean chill at bay.

“The Amazing Brothers McBird,” said Birdie with deep satisfaction. He was picking at a chicken bone, chewing at the marrow. Julian was lying in front of him, in full belly contentedness, his head resting on Birdie’s knees.

“How much did we make, then?” asked Derrick.

Birdie, their de facto banker, groaned and shifted and pulled the coins they had collected out of his pocket. It was a heavy weight of copper, with a few silver thrown in. They counted it seriously in the firelight. It was enough to keep them in bread and cheese for days.

“If you truly want to go to the Caspardian mountains, the road to the Lepidolite Pass turns east here,” said Derrick.

“Are you sure?” asked Julian.

 Derrick took a stick and drew a rough map in the dirt.

“If you really mean to find that woman - that seer, you should turn east here.”

“Are you coming with?” asked Birdie.

Derrick looked at him for a long moment. “Yeah,” he said. “I reckon so. If you’ll have me. We’re making good money. And I have a few questions I can ask that seer myself.”

“All right,” said Birdie. He sat up, suddenly alert, his previously relaxed sprawl had evaporated. “Just one condition.”

“What’s that?” asked Derrick. He looked at Birdie warily.

“Tell us your real name.”

“No,” said Derrick. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s better if you don't know. Believe me. It’s ….. safer this way.”

“Who are you running away from?” Birdie whispered.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Derrick. “I’m here. With you. I won’t betray you, if that’s what you're worried about. I’ve proved myself, haven’t I?”

“We’re the Brothers McBird,” said Birdie. “We should know your real name.”

Derrick stared at the fire a long time. At last he said, “I’m a brother? For true?”

“For true,” whispered Cricket fervently, and Birdie and Julian nodded their heads solemnly.

The fire crackled, and the little clearing was very quiet.

“I never had a brother before,” the dark haired boy, whose name was not Derrick, whispered.

“You do now,” said Birdie. “Three of us.”

“Cosmo,” he said, staring into the fire, his eyes never leaving the dancing flames. “It’s Cosmo.”

 ********

That night, his belly full of chicken and figs, Birdie grabbed Julian by the hand and led him off into the woods. They came to a little rise that looked out over the restless waves. The moon was waxing toward full, and Julian was starting to feel it’s pull in his bones, in his skin. When Birdie bent to kiss him he shuddered with pleasure, when Birdie circled his hands around his bum and squeezed, Julian gasped and ground his hips against him. Birdie started kissing Julian’s neck, soft and sexy in the moonlight, and Julian liked it, he liked it so much. He pushed his whole body against Birdie and felt the other boy’s cock pushing right up against him.

“Want to do the nasty?” asked Birdie, his head thrown back, his eyes squeezed closed. The moonlight was glinting off his high cheekbones, his nostrils flared. He was beautiful like that, transported by the pleasure Julian was giving him, and Julian felt his gut twist. He was the one making Birdie squeeze his eyes shut, he was the one making Birdie’s breath come in short rapid gasps, he was the one making Birdie’s cock hard, so hard, against his thigh. It thrilled and terrified him at the same time. Birdie wanted him, really wanted him. Like that. Julian turned away, panting.

“Don’t you want to?” Birdie turned his head and started nuzzling at Julian’s ear, which sent shudders through to Julian's spine.

Julian wriggled away from the warm circle of Birdie’s arms and sat up. He put his arms around his knees and stared out at the moonlit sea.

Of course he knew about it. He’d heard the other boys talk about fucking since he was a small child. But he had a hard time imagining it.

But Birdie sat up too and flung an arm around Julian’s shoulder. He moved in to kiss him again, insistently, and his mouth was warm and sweet. He pushed Julian’s shoulders around and kissed his face, his neck, his chest. That sensitive, hollow spot, below his Adam’s apple. He smelled of sweat, a clean masculine smell, though the night was cool, and the muscles in his arms were strong and taut like the strings of his lute.

“You could do me,” Birdie gasped. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Julian couldn’t quite imagine how that would work either. He didn’t know what he thought of what Birdie had proposed. But he knew he liked this. He liked how Birdie sucked in his breath at Julian’s kiss. He liked Birdie gasping and moaning at his touch, breathless and sweaty. He liked Birdie pushing up against him, wanting him. He liked it so much, better than anything in his whole life.

“Can’t we just...do like we always do?” said Julian. He reached his hand down towards Birdie’s cock, cupping him through the threadbare fabric. It felt hot and alive in his hand.

Birdie pushed him back, hand against his sternum and opened his eyes and looked at Julian for a minute. At last he shook his head, with a half smile. “Baby,” he murmured. But his scorn was muted by desire. He moved his own hand toward Julian's crotch and then it didn’t really matter, nothing really mattered but how good it felt, the two of them gasping and pressing against one another in the moonlit night.

After, when they were both stated and lying twined together, Julian buried his face in Birdie’s mass of curls and breathed in the smell of him. He thought how strange it was that Birdie, who had always looked upon sex scornfully, as the ultimate foolishness of adults should now be so carried away by it. He supposed it was because they were growing up - becoming adults themselves. It wasn’t really a comfortable thought.

“I guess now we know what all the fuss is about,” Julian said dryly.

“I suppose,” said Birdie, and a shadow crossed his face. He pulled out of Julian’s embrace, rolled over onto his stomach and looked out over the cliff’s edge, where the moon was painting the whitecaps silver.

“What’s wrong?” asked Julian, reaching over to pull a leaf out of his tangled mass of hair.

“Nothing,” said Birdie staring at the water. “Except….”

“What?”

“Sex makes adults stupid. Now we’ll be stupid, too. Just like them.”

Julian didn’t know if he cared that much about it. He was so relaxed and warm, his body felt so good, he thought maybe it was worth it, to be a little bit stupid, to feel like this.


	26. Eastward Into the Mountains

If it wasn’t the life of glory that they had imagined around the campfire it wasn’t the worst life either. They turned east, and headed into the hills. The scrappy little towns they stopped in were dull poor places, eager for a bit of entertainment, however amateurish.

They would start out with a demonstration of their kites with Julian standing in the center square of whatever village they had stopped in. With Shadow on his shoulder, he used his air magic to show off his creations to best advantage, making and them swoop and swirl in breezes and vortexes of his own conjuring. The village children looked at the kites Julian had made with great fascination, though they had little to trade for them. A few scraps of cloth, a handful of dried apples. Julian traded for supplies to make new kites, or for something to fill their bellies. Coin was in short supply in this region, and times were hard, harder people said, than they ever had been, in living memory. The harvest had been poor for three seasons running, and the Brotherhood soldiers were on the move, nosing around for any sign of dissent, collecting taxes that the villagers could scarce afford to pay.

Shadow was a draw in himself, and surprisingly, he seemed to like the attention he got from the children. He’d sit proudly on Julian’s shoulder, looking at his surroundings with his keen yellow eye. He’d spread his powerful wings, caw loudly with his harsh, high pitched cry, and occasionally, allow himself to be scratched, right between the eyes.

They’d set up a makeshift stage with one of their cloaks on a string, and Birdie would gather up a crowd, calling out the virtues of their show in a barker’s singsong. The village children would sit on the ground and laugh and clap at the puppet show. When it was over Birdie and Cosmo would start to play. The adults would stand around the edges of the circle and listen as the sweet strains of the music filled the village square. Cricket and Julian would get the dancing started, and soon the market square would be filled with whirling, dancing couples. For a little while, people forgot their troubles and were carried away by the music.

In the evenings, the local pub or tavern keeper was usually glad to have them perform, paying them in bowls of stew and pints of ale, and if they played particularly well, a place to sleep in an attic or haymow. They appreciated this because the nights were growing cold. When they didn’t have a roof over their heads they were glad of the wolfskin, and the winter cloak, and Birdie’s abilities as a fire starter. The days were still warm, but the air was increasingly bracing as they climbed into the mountains. The woods were busy with squirrels stowing nuts and acorns. Wasps gathered on the juicy remains of fallen apples and pears, and birds gathered in loud raucous groups, fattening up on berries for the long winter ahead.

They realized, as they went along, that their earnings increased when Cricket put on a pretty dress and joined the band. They fashioned a tambourine out of a piece of a hollow log, and fastened on some shiny clear shells which they had collected along the shore. They spent some of their hard earned money on a penny whistle for Julian, and Birdie couldn’t resist buying himself a bright red shirt and a green hat with a white feather.

Thus outfitted, generally warm, and with bellies generally full, the Amazing Brothers McBird made their way gradually eastward, toward the Caspardian Mountains.

********

In Giddeon’s garden the grapes were ripe, and it was time to make wine. The early fall days were soft and golden, the grapes hung dark blue and heavy from the vine. Giddeon picked the grapes into a large wooden tub as he had always always done, as his parents had done before him, but he took no joy in it. He remembered his childhood, when the grape harvest and wine making had been like a festival, with relatives and neighbors pouring into the stone house from all around, carting loads of grapes and putting up the wine. But his parents had died long ago, and all that had faded away. Now he was alone with the grapes.

The moon was nearly full and he felt the familiar restlessness and irritability, the tugging at his joints, the itchiness of his skin. He was sick with worry over Loaldo, who had gone back to the viper’s nest of Isinglass, spying for the order, in constant danger. He was sick with worry over Julian, Birdie and Cricket, those hopeful young people who had come to him with such trust. He had sent them off into the wide world, alone and undefended on a dangerous and difficult quest. His town was overrun with Brotherhood soldiers, the resistance was hanging on by a thread.

Around the corner of the house, a dark head appeared. A shy smile. “Can I help? “ asked Jupiter.

Giddeon's heart lifted. He smiled at the little girl. Her appearance soothed his lonely heart. “Of course you can," he said. “I’m picking grapes off the stems to make wine. See, I’m putting the grapes in this tub, here.”

Jupiter sat down and set to work. “I like to help you,” she said. She smiled, then winced in pain, and Giddeon saw the light blue bruise spreading across her cheek.

“What happened?” he asked, and he touched a finger gently to the injured spot.

“I fell down,” she said, looking at the ground.

“Hmm,” said Giddeon thoughtfully. “Let’s get you a poultice for that.” He stood up, took Jupiter’s hand and led her into the stone house.

********

Loaldo hurried over the cobbled streets of Isinglass. The day had turned warm, and he was late. He felt harried and anxious, his armpits damp with sweat. The doorways he passed were draped with red and purple banners. In the market square, Brotherhood flags, red diamonds on a purple background, whipped in the autumn breeze. He saw the red and purple uniforms of the Brotherhood Army everywhere - soldiers on guard duty in the market square, or marching in formation, their heavy boots ringing on the cobbled streets. The off duty soldiers stood around town, restless and bored. The pubs were full. The gambling parlors and the whorehouses were busy.

The Brotherhood Army’s main encampment was to the east of the city walls, where a village of white tents adorned with red and purple banners had sprung up. Huge mastodons pulled heavy carts, laden with all manner of food and supplies. Horses whinnied and pawed the ground restlessly. Great forges had been set up, with iron smiths working day and night to outfit the soldiers with weapons and armor. The air smelled of smoke and dung and greasy cooking. The army was preparing to move north, in a show of strength against the Ice King. No one knew if it would end in a skirmish or all out war. There were still those who hoped for peace, but their voices were increasingly drowned out by the rattle of the sabers.

Prices were going up. It was harder than ever for most people to afford the bare necessities. Yet, there were obviously those that were thriving as the city prepared for war. The merchants sold out early, and went home to their warm firesides and counted their money. The wheelwrights and coopers, chandlers and ropemakers all had more business than they could handle. Yet there seemed to be more beggars on the streets than ever, more desperate poor, more hungry children, crying for bread.

Meanwhile, their own king languished in a darkened room, hovering between life and death. Loaldo’s father, Phineas, had been named as regent to the small prince Brentano, only five years old. Phineas was running the country, rallying the army for war, always with the goals of the Brotherhood in his sight.

It reminded Loaldo of his youth, of another war. In that war Loaldo had been a soldier, fighting to save his country. Giddeon and Balthazar had both  been at his side then. Loaldo looked at the boyish faces of the soldiers and he remembered the quickening in his blood at the thought of going into battle, his desire to prove himself, his belief in the cause he had been fighting for.

And then, everything had gone so horribly wrong.

Now the thought of another war turned his stomach.

His stomach was a mess anyway, as he hastened through the city streets. He was meeting Saskia, and he was late.

There were things to be said, and Loaldo was not sure how he was going to say them.

Saskia was meeting him at the same tea house where they’d had their first talk. In this student neighborhood, next to the University, the purple and red banners were less common, there were fewer soldiers. The enthusiasm for war, that seemed to have taken over the rest of the city, was absent here. Loaldo felt it as a relief.

He entered the small, cozy tea shop, nodded at the cyclops proprietor with the red hair. She nodded back at him with her fishy eye. She recognized him.

“Your lady friend is already here,” she said in a sibilant tone, and led him to the back parlor where Saskia awaited him, seated before a cup of tea.

She greeted him with a cool kiss on the cheek, and poured him tea. She had ordered ginger again, not really Loaldo’s first choice, but he added honey and it was all right. After that business was over they sat across from each other in awkward silence.

Saskia smiled at Loaldo and took his large hand in her slim white one. “You have nice hands,” she commented.

That made Loaldo blush. Damn, this was awkward! He felt the heat rising, uncontrollably to his cheeks. Saskia laughed her silvery laugh. Her grey eyes were sparkling with amusement, and little laugh lines appeared around her eyes.

“Have you talked to Giddeon?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Loaldo, at once. “He’s agreed.”

Saskia smiled at that, and her face glowed with warmth. “That's wonderful," she said. "Then we can proceed.”

“There are……” Loaldo hesitated. This was the hard part. “There are a few things you should know…...about…...about us.”

He did like to think of himself and Giddeon as us. As a couple, a unit.

“Such as…?” Saskia looked at him with her piercing grey eyes.

“Giddeon is……” Loaldo’s heart was clenched with fear.

“A werewolf, yes?” Saskia said, gently.

“You…..you know?”

“I have been observing the two of you for a long time,” she said. “I’m not stupid, Loaldo.”

Loaldo swallowed, hard. “And you… still want to go through with it?”

“I have long contemplated my options in this matter,” replied Saskia. “I assume you have a method for keeping him safe during the full moon?”

“Yes,” said Loaldo. “I do.”

“He would not be any threat to the child?” she asked sharply.

“Of course not,” replied Loaldo. His throat had gone dry.

“I like you,” said Saskia decisively. “And I like him. It is important that we all get along, don’t you think? Of all our options in this venture, Pippa and I still feel we prefer you. In spite of Giddeon’s…. difficulties.”

“That’s…...good,” said Loaldo. “But…. there’s more.”

“Let’s hear it,” said Saskia.

“It’s…..confidential,” said Loaldo.

“All right,” said Saskia.

"Can I rely on your….discretion?”

“Yes, of course,” said Saskia with an impatient little sigh. “Out with it, Loaldo.”

Loaldo looked into those clear grey eyes. If Saskia chose to betray them it was all over.

“Loaldo, we’re going to have to trust each other,” she said softly. “Or this is never going to work.”

“It’s difficult,” said Loaldo.

Saskia shrugged, and shook her head impatiently.

“Giddeon and I are in the resistance.” He said it fast, as if he were diving into cold water. “We have been for years. I…. I’ve been working as a spy. A double agent.”

Saskia said nothing, studying him intently. “That’s…..incredibly risky,” she said at last.

Her face was solemn. Unsmiling. Unreadable. She sat there, stirred her tea, and did not drink it. For once she seemed to be at a loss for what to say. A quiet murmur, a tinkle of china filtered in from the main tearoom.

She rose suddenly. The table wobbled as she stood, and the tea in her full cup quivered.

“My sympathies in this fight are neutral,” she said. She was a tall woman, and she seemed very imposing, standing there in the tiny parlor. “I will not betray you.”

“Thank you,” said Loaldo, his eyes on hers.

“I admire your bravery,” she said.

Loaldo gave her a wry smile. “You once told me you thought I was not very brave,” he said.

“Yes, well perhaps I miscalculated,” she replied. “I shall have to discuss this with Pippa.” She pulled her cloak off the hook where she had hung it, and put it around her shoulders.

“I shall be in touch,” she said. She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head, casting her face into shadow, and swept out of the tea shop.

********

The full moon came, as it always did. Birdie had gone to a tiny village jumble shop, the kind of place that often had magic for sale, if you knew how to ask. He’d spent most of the money they had earned on a glimpie, without consulting anyone else.

“That’s stupid!” Julian protested angrily, when Birdie revealed the shining green stone to him. His hair was standing up around his head. His irises had taken on a yellow tinge, the whites were bloodshot, the pupils constricted to pinpoints. His chin was all grown out in stubble. He was scratching at himself and pacing around the little clearing where they had made their camp.

“It’s not stupid,” said Birdie, defensively. “It’s the only thing to do!”

“How much did you spend?” demanded Julian.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Birdie.

“It matters to me!” shouted Julian.

“There isn’t any other choice!”

“Sure there is. I can just go! I don’t need you!”

“I’m not letting you go off like that alone. Anything could happen. It’s my job to keep you safe.”

“Since when?”

“Since always, stupe! Since you were a thumb sucking bedwetter, that’s since when!”

“Stupe yourself!” said Julian in frustration. “Stupe! Stupe! Double stupe!” He balled his hands into fists and sat down by their firepit. “Stupid bastard whoreson! I hate you!” He was crying, wild uncontrolled sobs that sounded like they were being wrenched from his gut.

If Birdie was hurt by Julian’s insults he didn’t show it. He looked over at Cricket and shrugged.

“You talk to him!” he said.

“Julian,” said Cricket, gently. She put a hand on his back.

“Don’t touch me!” he snarled. His tone was so fierce that she jumped away.

“I’m sorry!” Julian said at once in a voice filled with remorse. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!….. I’m not…”

“It’s all right,” Cricket whispered. But she kept her distance.

“It’s just.....it’s all our money,“ said Julian plaintively.

Birdie shrugged. “We’ll make more,” he said. “What’s done is done, bro.”

“What about Cricket?”

“She’ll stay here with Cosmo. He can watch out for her.”

“You trust him with that?” Julian growled.

Birdie looked over at Cosmo a long minute. “You’ll look after her? Yeah?”

“Of course,” replied Cosmo stoutly. No one knew if he had any idea what was actually going on. Certainly none of them had explained it to him. But he’d have to be pretty stupid to not put two coppers together, as the saying went. And Cosmo wasn’t stupid.

“He told us his real name,” said Birdie decisively. “I trust him. Let’s go, bro,” he added and there was a note of urgency to his voice. “Sun’s going down.”

“Ha!” said Julian. “So it is!” He laughed that laughter that was bitter, rather than funny. “The sun always sets, the moon always rises!”

“C’mon!” said Birdie. He bent and kissed Julian, right on the mouth. He grabbed his hand and pulled him up. “Let’s go!”

“If anything happens to Crick there’ll be hell to pay!” Julian snarled, looking at Cosmo with a world of threat in his eyes.

Cosmo held up his hands. “I’ll guard her with my life!” he said. “I swear!”

“I can look out for myself, you know,” Cricket put in.

“C’mon Julian,” said Birdie urgently, tugging at him. The light in the forest had taken on an orange glow, accentuated by the colors of the turning leaves.

“All right, all right!” snapped Julian. “Hands off! I’m coming!” And Julian allowed himself to be led away by Birdie, into the flaming woods.

Cricket and Cosmo stood there, staring at each other across the cold firepit.

“Is he…?”

“He’s a werewolf,” said Cricket. “But you mustn't tell anyone.”

“A werewolf,” said Cosmo, and he sat down on a rock and put his head in his hands.

“It’s not that bad,” said Cricket in a small voice. “Birdie’ll keep him safe. His parents used to lock him in a shed, but there no place to lock him up here.”

“A werewolf?” said Cosmo again. “Really?”

“Yup,” said Cricket. “He was bit when he was only a baby. Our village witch took him in. That’s his Mum, Calliope”

“Calliope…” repeated Cosmo, as if he’d heard that name somewhere before.

“Sorry we didn’t tell you,” said Cricket. “But it's kind of a hard thing to talk about.”

“Yeah….” said Cosmo. “I guess so.” He shook himself, then looked up at Cricket and smiled. “What do we have to eat?” he asked.

They had some bread and cheese and eggs. They made a fire and boiled the eggs in the tin pot they had recently acquired with some of their earnings. Julian had found some mint a few days before, so after they ate, they made tea, and sat beside the fire and drank the soothing hot brew.

“So Julian’s mum is … a witch?” asked Cosmo.

“That’s what many call her,” said Cricket. “She’s….. you know… a healer. She helps people when they’re ill, when there’s babies to be born, that sort of thing. But she’s not his real mum, anyway.”

“Where’s his real mum?”

Cricket shrugged. “No one knows.”

“Has he tried to find her?”

“Nah,” said Cricket . “He’s happy with Calliope and Tobias.”

“Who’s Tobias?”

“His dad. Well, his adopted dad. He’s Calliope’s man. He’s a sailor, out on the ocean, but he comes back regular to see them and all, and bring them stuff. He’s who taught Birdie how to play the guitar. He learned it at sea, I guess.”

Off in the woods above them they heard the faint howling of wolves, and Cricket smiled.

“You think ...that's them?” Cosmo asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “Sounds like they’re all right.”

“Julian seems…. so gentle,” Cosmo said.

“He is.”

“It’s hard to believe….. there’s a wolf inside him.”

“Every month its the same,” Cricket said. “He hates it, but there isn’t a thing he can do about it.”

“Isn’t there a spell? Something? That would help him?”

“If there was Calliope would’ve found it,” replied Cricket. “She’s powerfully magical, Calliope is, and she loves Julian fierce. He had a potion he used to take that made the change less…...violent. But we had to leave it behind us when we ran away from those soldiers.”

Cosmo got up and added wood to the fire. He stirred it with a stick, and one of the larger logs broke with a loud snap, sending sparks shooting up into the dark night above them. He sat back down on his rock, put his chin on his knees, and stared into the flames. Cricket sat on the other side of the fire and watched him. There was so much about him that she did not know, so many things she wanted to ask him. But Cosmo was so quiet, so self contained. He was different from the boys she was used to, with their constant tumbling and scrapping, like puppies from the same litter. Birdie and Julian were always touching, whether they were fighting or snuggling up together, or just jostling each other with their elbows. And they were always talking - spinning tales, sharing dreams, scheming, arguing. Cosmo let the waves of chatter wash over him, and only spoke up when he had something important to say.

“I’m going to marry Julian some day,” she told Cosmo.

Cosmo looked back at her a long moment. “Are you now?” he said at last. Cricket nodded solemnly.

The silence deepened between them, as they sat watching the fire. They heard the wolves howling again, off in the distance. Cosmo stood, and got his violin.

He rosined the bow, tuned the strings, and tucked the violin under his chin. When Cosmo played, it was like he was talking, thought Cricket as the little clearing filled with sound. All the things he didn’t say, all the feelings he didn’t share, came out in his music. Tonight the tunes he played were sweet and sad, and Cricket’s heart was filled with yearning. She thought of home, of her mother, and wondered if she was all right, if she was lonely, if she missed her children. Cricket clutched at the key around her neck and wondered about her father and if she would ever find him. She watched Cosmo’s fingers as they moved skillfully over the strings, the muscles in his arm as he worked the bow, his face, lost in concentration. Her chest was filled with a jumble of feelings she could not name.

At last, her eyes grew heavy and Cosmo put his violin away. Cricket rolled herself in the old wolfskin and curled up beside the embers, and listened to Cosmo breathing on the other side of the fire until she fell asleep.


	27. Travertine

Birdie and Julian returned to the campsite just after dawn. Julian was battered and scratched, but otherwise unharmed. He was so tired he could barely stand, leaning heavily on Birdie. Cricket and Cosmo built up the fire and Julian and Birdie curled up together beside it and fell into a deep sleep.

Birdie woke about noon, with Julian snuggled in his arms. He lay there for a few moments, his mind drifting lazily. He liked lying here, holding Julian. He liked knowing that Julian was asleep, that he was getting the deep healing his body needed after the violent transformation into the wolf and back. It was always so, after the moon. Birdie breathed in Julian's contented boy smell one more time. He rolled over onto his back and looked up. It was a sunny autumn day. Yellow leaves above him glowed brightly against the deep blue sky. He smelled something cooking on the campfire. He yawned and stretched enormously and sat up.

Cosmo was sitting by the fire, writing in a small notebook. Birdie got up and stood beside him, looking over his shoulder curiously. He saw a series of markings, notes on a stave, marching up and down across the page. He got a little thrill looking at those notes. It was as if the music had been captured, preserved forever in those black lines and dots.

“What’re you doing?” he asked Cosmo.

“Oh,” said Cosmo. He closed the notebook. He seemed almost embarrassed. “Just…. writing down a tune I was thinking about.”

“How’d you learn to do that?” demanded Birdie.

Cosmo shrugged. “I ...someone taught me.”

“Who?”

“My grandfather.”

It was probably another lie, Birdie thought, but at the moment he was more interested in a lesson than an argument.

“Show me,” he said.

So Cosmo opened the notebook and he and Birdie spent the afternoon beside the fire, while Cosmo explained notes and keys, intervals and meter, scales and harmony.  
Birdie’s face was tight with concentration, as he saw how the pieces fit into the whole. Cosmo picked up his violin to demonstrate an idea, and Birdie got out his lute and played it back to him. Soon their music wove and spiraled around the little clearing. Cricket gathered greens and wild onions and created a soup with some beans and barley from their supplies, while Julian slept deeply on.

The next day, when Julian had recovered, they moved on. As they headed up into the hills the land became poorer, the air colder. The fields were strewn with rocks and long walls of stone marched across the barren landscape. The few houses and barns they saw were made of rough grey boulders. There were hardly any trees, and the people burned coal which was mined high up in the mountains. It gave off a sharp earthy smell. Autumn was well under way in this cold stony land. There were no berries on the bushes, no nuts or acorns. The farmsteads were all buttoned up for the winter, uninviting grey buildings with a thin wisp of coal smoke rising from a lone chimney. Inside, it was clear that food was scarce, and they did not stop.

Shadow loved this country. He loved the clear, crisp air, the open skies. He hunted mice and rabbits in the stony fields, flying high, higher, until he was a tiny black speck, surveying the countryside for any movement, any twitching of the grass or rustling of the leaves. Then he would streak down, with breathtaking speed, an arrow hurtling to the ground in pursuit of his prey.

Towns were fewer and farther between in this harsh, infertile country, and they could no longer rely on finding a tavern with a warm fireside and a pot full of stew every night. Hunger, that unwelcome companion, returned to them. Fuel was also scarce - they built smoky fires of grass and thorny brush which burned out quickly. Then they curled up beside the cold ashes of their fire with bellies growling. The days were short, and growing shorter, the sun setting a little bit earlier each evening. In the mornings, the road ahead was cast into shadow by the tall mountains to the east, and it was close to midday before they felt the warmth of the sun.

At last they arrived in Travertine, a substantial settlement for these parts, not a village or hamlet, but a proper town, surrounded by a grey stone wall, with a large citadel at its center. It rose out of the rocky fields, framed by the snowy peaks of the Caladrian mountains to the east. Turrets rose above the walls of the town, with colored banners waving in the brisk autumn breeze. A huge arched gateway was set in the center of the town wall. As they approached it, they saw a cart, piled high with logs and pulled by a gargantuan hairy beast, with long tusks and an enormous trunk swaying rhythmically to and fro before it as it lumbered along.

They all four stood and stared as that strange, massive animal pulled its load up to the town gate. They saw the driver get off and talk to the guardsman, two small dark figures silhouetted against the light grey stone walls, dwarfed by the enormous creature standing patiently beside them.

“What is it?” Cricket whispered.

“I think it's ...Is it a mastodon? I’ve seen pictures, in Calliope's books,” Julian said.

“Yeah,” said Cosmo. “They use them for hauling heavy loads up in the mountains.”

“Have you…. Seen one before?” asked Cricket.

“Yeah, “ said Cosmo. “Yes. I’ve seen them.”

“Where?” asked Cricket, never taking her eyes off the mastadon.

“In ...Where I used to live,” replied Cosmo. “The Brotherhood Army uses them, for hauling their supply wagons.”

They watched as the guardsman stepped aside, the driver tipped his hat, and jumped back onto his cart. With a slow, lumbering gait the mastodon proceeded through the arched gateway and disappeared into the town.

“Let’s go see if we can find a place to play and get some food,” said Cosmo, walking toward the town.

They approached the looming gate with trepidation. There was a booth beside it and a small man with a large beard stepped out. He wore a leather helmet and held a shining silver spear in his hand.

“Here for the Autumn Festival?” he asked, looking them over with a beady eye.

“Erm ...Yes!” said Birdie, although this was the first any of them had heard of the Autumn Festival.

“Yer a bit early,” the man said. “It don’t start for three days yet.”

“Just ...eager,” said Birdie. “We’re The Amazing Brothers McBird. No festival would be complete without our act.”

“Amazing?” said the little man, looking them over doubtfully. “I suppose. No monkey business,” he added sharply, “Or the town guard will throw you out, quick like. Market square is just ahead.” He waved them through with his spear. “I’ll have my eye on you,” he said as they went through the thick high gate and entered the town.

When they got through the gate, their eyes were met by a riot of color.

The streets of Travertine were paved with sparkling mosaics of colored glass. The colors reflected off the road and shimmered over the grey stone walls of the buildings around them. They stood before the gate, bedazzled by the multitude of color. The glass was laid out in the shape of a peacock - iridescent blues, greens and violets fanning our before them, picking up the brilliant noontime sunshine and reflecting it back so brightly that Cricket put her hand to her eyes. After days of walking through the grey green landscape of the upper plains, the colors seemed too brilliant to be real.

Birdie, standing beside Cricket, gave a startled gasp and grabbed her hand. He was looking about fearfully, almost as it he’d seen a ghost.

“You all right?” asked Julian, looking at him sharply.

“I'm ...Yeah,” said Birdie. He dropped Cricket’s hand and shook himself. “I’m fine.” But he kept looking up and down the street as though it was haunted.

Suddenly, they were startled by a snorting sound behind them.

“Watch yerselves!” came a harsh voice. Birdie grabbed Cricket’s arm and pulled her to the side. The snorting sound came again, louder this time, and Cricket felt wet spit hitting the back of her neck. She looked up to see another enormous mastadon, towering above her. Its huge tusks swung from side to side, nearly goring her. It snuffled about with its trunk. She heard the sharp crack of the driver’s whip, high above them and the mastadon passed, a heavily laden cart creaking behind it, loaded with huge trees from high in the mountains.

After the mastadon cart passed, leaving a strong animal smell behind it, the streets seemed strangely still and silent. But a minute later, another cart came through the gates, this one pulled by a mule, and laden with coal. The driver was a merry dwarf in a red cap which he raised to them as he passed.

They followed the mule cart up the street paved with glass. As they moved along they saw many shiny brightly colored glass baubles hanging in the windows, some in the shape of simple spheres, some in fanciful whorls and spirals. The glass peacock mosaic was followed by a fish mosaic, with shimmering multicolored scales, then a flower garden bloomed under their feet, with blossoms fashioned of many brightly colored pieces of glass.

The streets were full of people, dressed in bright colors, going about their business, purposeful, but in no particular hurry. There were women with full baskets doing the marketing, children playing, men driving loaded carts pulled by sturdy, dark eyed donkeys. Cricket wondered where the magnificent mastodons had disappeared to. The air smelled of animals and people, of cooking fires and food.

“My stomach’s growling,” Cricket moaned.

“Don’t we have any money left?” asked Julian.

Birdie dug into his pocket and pulled out their thin purse. A few coins jangled at the bottom of it. “C’mon,” he said, turning down a side street. “There’s a bake shop down here.”

“How do you know that?” asked Cricket, doubtfully,

He shrugged and grinned at her. He seemed to have recovered from his earlier shock. “Smelled it,” he said.

Birdie was right. About halfway down the block was a bakery that smelled like heaven. He went in and bought a loaf of bread, and chatted with the girl at the counter. With the last of their money they bought four apples from a toothless old woman with a fruit cart. They made their way to the market square, where they sat beside a fountain and ate their meager meal.

“That girl in the bakery told me market day’s tomorrow,” Birdie informed them.

“Good,” said Cosmo. “We should be able to make some money then.” He took a bite of the crusty fragrant bread, still warm from the oven.

“What about this festival then?” asked Julian, feeding Shadow, who was sitting on his shoulder, a crust of bread.

“The Autumn Festival. Sounds like a big gathering,” replied Birdie. “People come from all over. We’re lucky we got here when we did. We might be able to make some real money.”

“Where’re we gonna sleep?” asked Cricket.

“There’s three taverns in town. That girl thought we should try the Glass Harp first. Sounds like the nicest one. The other two sound kind of dodgy.”

“What’re they called?” asked Julian, his mouth stuffed with bread.

“The Gryphon's Tooth and the Black Dagger.”

“Yeah,” agreed Cosmo. “Glass Harp it is.”

“It’s over there,” Birdie informed them, gesturing with his apple core. “Down that street with all the glass blowers.”

“Glass blowers?” said Julian.

Birdie, who seemed to know where he was going, led them down a street called Bindelglass Lane which, indeed, was lined on both sides with glass maker’s workshops. Through the large windows they could see craftsmen working at furnaces that glowed bright orange. They were spinning and blowing molten glass into shimmering, brightly colored shapes. The smell of their coal fires was strong, and the windows were hung with cleverly shaped ornaments and orbs in every color imaginable, which glinted and sparkled in the bright autumn sunshine.

They clung together in a tight group, making their way slowly down the narrow street. Shadow sat on Julian’s shoulder, bobbing his head and looking about with his sharp yellow eye. “Pretty,” he said with approval. “Sparkles.”

Cricket looked and looked at the beauty all around her. She was completely enchanted. She had never imagined such brilliant colors, such elegant shapes. Her eyes darted eagerly about, trying to take everything in, sparkling with interest.

The Glass Harp Inn sat at the end of Bindelglass Lane. True to its name, it had a harp made of colored glass hanging beside the door. It was a real musical instrument, with steel strings that jangled in the breeze. Birdie reached out a hand, and plucked out an arpeggio, and the notes sprang forth, tinkling and clear, like glass.

They entered the dark bar with a creaking of hinges. Inside a man sat behind the bar, apparently idle, staring into space. He was tall and reed thin, baldheaded, with thin wisps of hair about his ears, protruding eyes, his mouth a thin line. He seemed to lean inward a bit, his back perpetually swayed. He was dressed all in black and there was an air of mournfulness about him, as if he’d just come from a funeral.

“Yes?” he asked, looking up at them with those pale goggly eyes, from under heavy grey eyebrows. “What do you want?”

“Hello, kind sir,” said Birdie. He stepped to the front of their group and bowed, sweeping his green hat with the feather off his head. “We are the Amazing Brothers McBird, and for a small, inconsequential repayment would be happy to delight your guests with our act.”

“Your act,” said the tall man behind the bar in a dubious voice.

“Yes sir, indeed. An amazing evening of song, dance, puppetry and merriment awaits your esteemed clientele. They will laugh and they will cry. Once word gets out we are sure to draw in a large crowd. And they'll be sure to be needing plenty of refreshment. We’re good for business, we are, no doubt about it. You don’t want to miss out on a chance to engage us sir, you can be sure. We came here first,” Birdie added. “But I hear there’s a couple of other inns in town that would be happy to hire us if you are not inclined to do so, sir. Though if your asking my opinion, this place could do with a bit of cheering up.”

The pale man looked them over for a long time, those protruding eyes demanding a certain amount of respect. The Brothers Mcbird shuffled and squirmed uncomfortably under that doleful gaze.

“Play,” he said at last, with a heavy sigh. “Let’s see what you can do.”

They got out their instruments. They played _“The Baker’s Wife,”_ a naughty tune, with a naughty story, full of double entendres and popular in pubs wherever they went. When they were done the barman had little reaction, but continued to look them over critically.

“You’ve no where to stay, I suppose,” he said at last, mournfully, with great effort, as if the words cost him.

“Ermm….. A roof tonight would be most welcome,” said Birdie.

“And empty bellies most like,” he added glumly.

“A bowl of stew and a pint of ale is always welcome, good sir,” Birdie replied.

This statement was met with a heavy silence.

“You can play for tips,” the barman said at last. “You can sleep in the attic, and I’ll feed you tonight. If,” he added dourly, “You bring in the trade.”

The attic he showed them to was a dusty and cluttered place, crowded with bales and boxes, old trunks, broken furniture, discarded crockery, piles of mouldering clothes. There didn’t seem to be much room to sleep among the warrens of piled boxes and bins. Still, a roof was a roof and they thanked the strange, mournful innkeeper. They left their packs in the attic, took their instruments and set out to see what the town had to offer them.

They spent the afternoon playing on street corners, passing the hat and announcing their upcoming performance at the Glass Harp Inn that evening. People were friendly and polite, but they earned little, and the hat was disconcertingly light.

“Hope we do better than this tomorrow,” Birdie fretted, counting their few coppers. “We’re going to need supplies if we’re going up into those mountains.” He eyeballed the peaks towering above them anxiously.

“Yeah, and warmer clothes,” said Cosmo.

“Boots,” said Julian.

“A tent would be nice, too,” said Cricket. “I didn’t think there’d be snow, yet.”

“It’s because we’re so high up,” said Cosmo.

“I don’t know how we’re going to get the money for all that,” said Julian, with a hollow sound in his voice.

They bought more bread and apples with the little money they’d earned. They sat beside the fountain in the market square and pondered their difficulties.

After they’d eaten they wandered through the streets of the town, marveling anew at the brightly sparkling mosaics that paved the streets. Cricket was drawn back towards Bindelglass Lane. She wanted to stand and watch the glass blowers at their work. She was fascinated by the swirling colors, and the beautiful shimmering symmetry of the glass as it was blown. Some shops specialized in tumblers for drinking, some in fine goblets, some in heavy dark blue bottles, like the one Julian’s potion had been stored in, some in the gorgeous colored spheres they saw hanging in almost every window of the town. Some shops specialized in glass of just one color - blue, violet, red. Others made glass that was speckled with many colors, or wildly striped in rainbows of contrasting hues. Still others did not blow the glass at all, but poured out the molten liquid glass onto trays of shimmering metal, making panes that could be used for windows.

She stopped and watched for a long time at one window where a young woman, her hair a cap of blonde curls frizzing around her head, stood and blew glass orbs in one dazzling color after another. She wore baggy white trousers and a heavy leather apron as all the other glass blowers did, but she was the only woman Cricket had seen in the workshops. At last she noticed Cricket staring and gave her a friendly smile, then went back to her work. When she looked up a little later, and saw that Cricket was still there, she gestured her to come in.

Inside the shop was warm from the heat of the furnace, the smell of the coal fire more intense. It tickled Cricket’s nose and she sneezed, then laughed, nervously.

The girl tossed her blond curls and laughed as well. Her laugh was high and tinkling like the sound of glass wind chimes, Cricket thought.

“Hey,” the girl said. “I’m Maizey.”

“I’m Cricket.” She felt suddenly overwhelmed with shyness. She had no idea where the boys had got to, but she didn’t really care. This was where she wanted to be. Her fingers itched to try the glassblowing for herself.

“Hello Cricket,” said Maizey. “Want to see how its done?”

Cricket barely noticed the passage of time as Maizey showed her how she rolled the molten glass onto a metal tube, blew it out into a hollow globe, spun and shaped it with a wooden tool, then heated and blew some more, until she had a beautifully curving orb. Once Maizey had the shape she wanted she cut it off neatly with a wire, rolled another glob of molten glass onto her blowing rod, and started the whole process over again.

“Is this where all the glass comes from?” Cricket asked.

Maizey laughed her tinkling laugh. “A great deal of it,” she replied. “Although the finest glass in the world is made by the dwarves, up north, in the Ice Kingdom. Everything we do, all our knowledge of our craft, we learned from them, long ago. What we do here is a pale imitation, I’m afraid. But it is true, much of the glass people use every day comes from Travertine. We have access to the mines you see, where we get the sand, and the precious metals for coloring, and the coal to stoke the furnaces. People have been making glass here for hundreds of years.”

“How come you get to do it?” asked Cricket bluntly.

“What …. You mean because I’m a girl?” When Maizey laughed she got crinkles around her eyes.

“Yes,” Cricket said. “That.”

“My family have all been glass blowers,” she replied. “My father and his father before him, going back as long as anyone can remember. But Ma had all girls. There’s six of us you see, but no boys. Well my older sisters have all gone off and got themselves married, so someone had to carry on the family tradition and I’m it.”

Cricket heard a rapping on the window and looked up to see Birdie, holding up a large iced bun and gesturing for her to come out.

“My brother,” Cricket said to Maizey. “I have to go.”

“Come back tomorrow,” said Maizey kindly. “I’ll let you try your hand at it if you like.”

Cricket went out into the late afternoon sunshine, and ate the delicious bun that Birdie handed her. They walked back to the Glass Harp to get ready for their show, but Cricket’s mind was on the glass blower’s studio, and Maizey’s invitation to return the next day.

That night, the Glass Harp rang with the sound of their playing. They passed the hat and didn’t do too badly. The dour barman fed them reluctantly, and they slept warm in the attic, with full bellies. Cricket found a private corner in all the clutter, behind an old wardrobe. She curled up in her blanket and thought and thought about the bright colors and shimmering shapes of the glass blowers studio, the red glow of the furnace, the beautiful shapes blooming from the metal rods, until she fell asleep.


	28. The Mapmaker's Emporium

The Amazing Brothers McBird performed at the market in the town square the next morning. Everyone was talking excitedly about the upcoming Autumn Festival and they had high hopes that they’d make enough there to buy the supplies they needed to travel on into the mountains.

That afternoon Cricket made her way back to Bindelglass Lane, and the shop where she had met Maizey, the glass blower with the blond curls. Maizey smiled when she saw Cricket, and signaled her inside.

Cricket spent the next few hours sweating in front of the furnace, blowing into the metal tube, trying to form a glass globe, under Maizey’s gentle encouragement. All her attempts were complete failures and ended up back in the vat of molten glass that sat in the glowing red heart of the furnace.

As darkness started to fall outside she gave up, leaned her blowing rod against the wall, and watched as Maizey effortlessly blew a perfect rose colored globe. She set the beautiful, shimmering object on the shelf by the furnace to cool (not too fast, not too slow, as she had explained to Cricket earlier.)

“Don’t feel bad,” she said to Cricket kindly. “It takes a lot of practice.”

“You make it look so easy,” Cricket said.

“I’ve been doing it for a long time. You’ve the knack for it. If you keep it up, it’ll get easier.”

“Can I come back tomorrow?” asked Cricket. She felt an eager hopefulness pulsing in her chest.

“Of course,” said Maizey. “Now, I think there’s someone special waiting for you outside.” Her blue eyes twinkled merrily.

Cricket looked up. Cosmo was waiting for her outside in the dusky street. When he saw her, he smiled and waved.

She felt her face grow hot. “He’s not…. He’s just ...It's just Cosmo,” Cricket said.

“Mmmm,” said Maizey. “See you tomorrow then?”

“Yes!” said Cricket. “Thank you!”

She left the warm, brightly lit workshop and joined Cosmo outside. They walked back to the Glass Harp together.

It was kind of Cosmo to come fetch her, Cricket thought, but she didn’t feel much like thanking him. “Where’re Birdie and Julian?” she asked.

Cosmo shrugged. “Off being Birdie and Julian,” he said.

They walked along the glass paved street silently in the growing gloom.

“I really am going to marry Julian,” Cricket said. She wanted to be clear.

“I know,” said Cosmo.

********

Birdie and Julian had been wandering the streets of Travertine, somewhat aimlessly it must be admitted. They looked in the windows of the shops, making their way slowly up toward the citadel, which stood on a hill at the center of the town. The imposing round structure was made of thick slabs of light grey stone, the travertine for which the town was named. At the top, high above their heads, the building was decorated with stained glass windows. A man in a blue cap stood at the entrance, where a short line of people had formed, waiting to get in.

“Penny a head,” he called cheerfully. “Don’t crowd, now. Come see the famous glass windows of Travertine. Worth your money, for sure.”

Birdie looked at Julian, who nodded. They joined the line of people waiting to get in.

Once they got inside they found an open, airy room, crowded with visitors, mostly people from out of town, here for the Autumn Festival. A murmur of voices echoed in the cavernous space. Footsteps reverberated off the walls. Patterns of colored light shone on the grey flagstones beneath their feet, as the sunshine poured in through the tinted glass high above their heads.

Looking up, they saw what all the fuss was about. A series of stained glass windows showed the story of Astralina and Cassandra in vivid, glowing detail. Birdie and Julian walked around the room, looking up at that glimmering dome. The first panel depicted two babies, one white, one green, as they fell to earth. They bounced and laughed on the soft green grass. There was a panel that showed the two girls growing up among the animals, another one that showed Aldebaran coming to earth and being greeted by two beautiful young women. Astralina’s skin glowed milky white, Cassaandra’s was grass green. Another panel showed them fighting, raising wintery snowstorms and fiery volcanoes. The final panel showed Astralina and Aldebaran, sitting on thrones of gold, holding their newborn baby with a golden halo, shaped like the sun, around his head. In a corner, Cassandra slunk off into a dark woods, her head bowed, and tears of glass running down her cheeks. Her tears pooled to form a river that flowed beneath her feet. The glass river ran down the stone wall of the citadel and flowed onto the floor, forming a basin of luminescent blue glass, where a small fountain burbled softly.

The dome in the ceiling depicted the final battle between the Sun God, Astralina and Aldebaran’s son, now grown to manhood, and the great dragon, Feldrick. The Sun God once again had a sun shaped halo of gold around his head. He was dressed in shining armor and held a silver sword in his well muscled arm. He was piercing the heart of Feldrick, whose mouth was open in a scream of anguish, breathing flames of orange and yellow glass. Large drops of blood, formed from deep red glass, were splattered over his iridescent scales. His wings drooped on either side of him and his tail hung below the window, in an extension cut into the stone.

By the time they had finished looking at those beautiful windows the sun was low in the west and the shadows were long. The light on the snow capped mountains behind the Citadel was golden. The afternoon had turned chilly - the thin mountain air did not hold on to the warmth of the day very well. They stopped and ate meat pies in a cook shop, feeling guilty at spending more of their hard earned coppers, but the food smelled so good and their little purse was so fat. The few coins they spent would hardly be noticed. They walked back along the High Street - the main thoroughfare that went down from the stone citadel to the market square.

“This way,” Birdie said, tugging at Julian’s arm and pulling him down a street called Pennypincher's Lane.

“Where’re we going?” asked Julian.

“It’s a shortcut.”

“How d’you know that?” asked Julian, but he let himself be led down the steeply winding street. Lights were coming on inside the small shops that lined the narrow lane - it was not quite closing time and people were bustling about, stopping to buy something for their supper as they hurried home.

“Look!” Birdie said grabbing hold of Julian’s hand and gesturing upwards.

 _The Mapmaker’s Emporium_ read the sign hanging high above them. The second story window of the little shop glowed invitingly, and they could see many books and maps laid out. The entrance was squeezed between a tailor’s and a butcher shop, creaking wooden stairs leading up into dusky darkness.

“Let’s go,” said Birdie. “You’re always going on about how we need a map.”

“I don’t know,” said Juian, staring up into the gloom.

“C’mon,” said Birdie, tugging at Julian’s hand.

“A map will be expensive,” said Julian, doubtfully.

“Let’s just look,” said Birdie, dragging him up the stairs.

The landing was dark but they could faintly read the sign on the door. _The Mapmaker’s Emporium - Wayfarer’s find your road herein._

Birdie pushed at the door, and it opened with a creak, and the jingle of a small bell.

Inside a wizened old man with very large ears, a thin pointed nose and a bald head sat at a high table, reading in a pool of lamplight. Another lamp, of many colored glass shed light on a large map table that stood by the window, looking out over the street. The rest of the shop faded unto dusky darkness. He marked his place in his book with a long finger and looked up at them with glittering black eyes.

“Yes?” he said in a creaky, little used voice that sounded like old dust. “May I help you?”

“We’re…..we’re looking for a map of the Caspardian Mountains,” said Julian. He had a lump in his throat. “The Lepidolite pass. And ... and Mount Caldor.”

“Mount Caldor?” said the man behind the desk. His eyes had taken on a sharp questioning look. Were they truly black? They looked to be all pupil. Julian did not remember ever seeing someone with truly black eyes before. “It's not the time of year to be going up Mount Caldor. The weather can turn nasty in a heartbeat, up there.”

“We ... we just wanted to see a map,” said Julian hesitantly. “If ...if you have one.”

“Oh, I have one,” said the old man. “I have several. I’ve maps of every nook and cranny of Tellurium. Maps to anywhere you’d care to go. Plenty of places more inviting than Mount Caldor, at this time of year, though. Can’t imagine what two handsome young ones such as yourselves want with Mount Caldor, but….. None of my business really.”

He set down his book and slid off his stool. He came out from behind the desk and Julian saw that he was a very small man, not more than three feet high. His large head barely came to Julian’s waist. He had long arms, and short legs ending in bare feet with long toes. Julian looked again into those black glittering eyes and felt a tingle at the base of his spine.

The strange short man walked over to the map table by the window. He opened a long flat drawer and drew out a beautiful large map that showed the Caspardian Mountains in great detail.

“This is a fine map here,” he said in his dusty voice. “There’s the Lepidolite pass - there,” he said, pointing with long hairy finger. “About a three days walk in good weather - longer in the snow. You’ll want snowshoes. Or skis. Some warmer clothes as well, I’d imagine,” he added, looking them over. “Once you get through the pass there’s a good straight trail. Not too rocky, but a bit steep. Mount Caldor is dead east about half a days walk -maybe longer with the snow on it. The trail goes around the mountain, but it’s treacherous. Deadly treacherous, this time of year. Steep and icy. Some say you can go through the mountain - but not everyone who goes inside comes out. It's riddled with old tunnels and mines. It's easy to get lost in there - blind alleys, false turns. A real maze. Dwarves have been mining that mountain for hundreds of years. It's where the precious metals come from, you see, to color the glass that this region is so famous for.”

“Don’t you have a map of the inside of the mountain?” asked Birdie.

“I do, but that’ll cost you dear.”

“How much?” asked Julian looking into those black glittering eyes. They seemed timeless, as if all of eternity somehow could be seen within them, if he stared long enough. The little wizened man did not blink.

“Ten silver,” he said.

“We don’t have that much,” said Birdie.

“No,” the man said. “Sadly, most don’t. Those that want to go to Mount Caldor aren’t usually the ones with money. They’re the ones that are hoping to strike it rich in the old mines, although I can tell you, those ancient veins are long tapped out. The new mines are further west, that’s where the ores and precious metals come from nowadays. Mount Caldor is abandoned for a reason. Cold and lonely place, it is. Only those with not much to lose try their luck there. It's haunted too, some say. They say there are ghosts in some of those abandoned mine shafts, ghosts of the miners who lost their lives in that old mountain.”

“What’s on the other side?” asked Birdie. “If you get through all that?”

“Well,” said the old man. He pointed at the map again. “It's a steep descent, but the trail’s all right. Rough in a few places, but passable, at least in decent weather. From there you can take the marble road, across the plains of Moran and through the Eagle Pass and be in Isinglass in less than a week.”

“Isinglass,” said Birdie, and his eyes lit up.

“Indeed, young man.”

“How much for this map then?” asked Birdie.

“This one’s five silver, but seeing as you two seem a little strapped for cash, I’ve a smaller one - not so pretty, but it's accurate. Good for travelers. I can let you have that one for 50 copper.”

He reached back into the flat drawer and pulled out a much smaller map, drawn with simple lines. Julian studied it carefully, compared it to the big beautiful map spread out before them. Though much less detailed, the bones of the map were the same. Fifty copper was most of what they’d earned the past two days, but the Autumn Festival was coming and they could hope to make more. He nodded thoughtfully.

Birdie was still studying the big map. “What’s that there?” he asked. Julian over looked at him critically. There was something in the tone of Birdie’s voice that alarmed him.

Birdie was pointing to the map, to a picture of a tower off on a side trail.

”That?” the old man said. “That there’s the Green Tower. Stay away from there. Haunted place, that is. That‘s a place of power. Old magic flows through there. It’s a gateway, of sorts. You don’t want to mess with that place.”

“The Green Tower?” Birdie repeated. His voice had a strange, faraway quality and his face had an odd closed look.

“They say Cassandra herself haunts that place,” the old man went on. “Or she did. Used to be a shrine to Cassandra up there, in the old days. Ladies that was expecting used to go up there, leave little gifts, pray for an easy birth. Young girls would go up there and spill out their hearts, and they used to say Cassandra would listen. But something happened up there - nigh on fourteen years ago now, it was. A release of power, a shift. Since then, the Green Tower’s turned black. Nought grows up there, and they say that at night, you can hear Cassandra wailing.”

The little shop was very quiet after the old man had finished this tale. Birdie was clutching at the edge of the table. He was upset, but Julian couldn’t figure out why.

Julian looked above the desk and saw a small piece of paper, tacked on the wall, surrounded by framed maps. On it was a crudely drawn symbol - four circles linked together, and slashed through by a single horizontal line. It was a symbol he recognized.

Slowly, he reached into his pocket, and drew out the hastily scribbled paper that Giddeon had given him weeks ago. He unfolded it carefully and studied it, then handed it to the old man. The symbol that Giddeon had drawn was the same as the one hanging on the wall.

The old man looked at it and nodded. “Not surprised,” he said at last. He didn’t look too pleased.

“Can’t you help us?” Julian asked.

“Suppose I’ve got to,” the old man said. “Now.”

He got up and wordlessly disappeared into the dark recesses of the shop. They heard him moving around, shuffling papers. Julian grabbed Birdie’s hand and squeezed it.

He came back with a map in his hand. “I don’t know what your business is up on Mount Caldor,” he said. “Best if I don’t know, to tell the truth. The Brotherhood mostly leaves us alone, in these parts, but even here, there’s spies. This map is the dearest hope you have of getting through that mountain alive. Best take it, and get going.” He took both maps rolled them together, tied them with a string and held them to Julian, who was still clutching Birdie’s hand. Birdie, still staring at the large map laid out on the table, seemed miles away.

“We can’t pay for both,” said Julian looking into those black glittery eyes.

“No cost,” said the old man. “Not to you. Not if you’re with the Resistance. Now go. Get up there and get done what you need to, before the winter really hits. My name’s Grimble. If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

Julian dropped Birdie's hand took the rolled maps.

"Thank you," he whispered.

The old man nodded. "Good day to you," he said.

They left the little shop with a jingle of the bell and stood on the landing, wordlessly. Julian had the precious maps clutched in his hand. Birdie was breathing hard as if he had been running. He still looked as if he wasn’t really there. After a minute he started walking - not down the creaky wooden stairs and back to the street, but up. Up to the third story landing, then the fourth. Julian followed him. From behind closed doors they could hear children talking and laughing, smell people’s dinners cooking. At last they came out on the roof, startling a flock of sparrows who rose in a twittering cloud. A chilly wind cut into them from the east, where the snowy Caspardian Mountains glowed a rosy pink from the setting sun. Julian shivered.

“It's awfully snowy and cold up there,” he said.

“Yeah,” agreed Birdie. He put his hand on the nape of Julian’s neck and bent to kiss him. They hadn’t been alone together in days and Julian felt the heat of Birdie’s body, drawing him in, irresistible. The wind was cold on his back but Birdie was warm, so warm. His mouth was warm and his arms were warm, and Julian wanted to forget about everything and lose himself in that warmth. But after a few moments Birdie pulled his mouth away.

“I been here before,” he said huskily.

“Yeah?” said Julian, breathing into his neck.

“I knew this town was familiar,” Birdie said. “I remembered all those glass pictures in the streets, but it all seemed like a dream, you know. But when that man ….”

“Is he a goblin?” interrupted Julian

“Yeah,” said Birdie. “Pretty sure he is. Got to be. All short and hairy like that, with those black eyes and long toes. There’s lots of strange types up here in the mountains.”

“Have you ever seen one before?” asked Julian.

“Yeah,” said Birdie. “When I was little. But…that man….”

“Yeah?”

“When he mentioned the Green Tower. That place. I been there before.”

Julian said nothing.

“It’s where…. It's where Crick was born.”

Julian pulled him closer.

“We came here, to this town after…..after the tower burned.”

“It burned?”

Birdie nodded. “It was hit ...by lightning. She was born there, in the Green Tower. It's like a dream - I was just a little kid, but I remember. The birth ...the birth was terrifying, Julian. I thought - I thought Ma was going to die.”

“You were there?” asked Julian.

Birdie nodded. “I was there. I was so scared. There was a lot of blood. And Ma was yelling, screaming and cursing like anything. But she didn’t die, and after Crick was born everything was all right.”

Birdie stared over Julian’s shoulder at the mountains. The rosy red color was deepening against the fathomless blue of the evening sky.

“We stayed there, for a few days, and they were happy. We were happy. Then …..then the old man came. That’s when everything went wrong.”

“The old man?” Julian asked.

Birdie nodded.

“What happened?”

Birdie closed his eyes, remembering, and snuggled closer into Julian, who tightened his arms around the other boy.

“He was nice, the old man was, at first.”

“Who was he? Was he Cricket’s grandfather?”

Birdie shrugged “Maybe,” he said. “I was just a little kid. Nobody explained anything to me. All I knew was that the baby was all right, and….and Balthazar was happy and Ma was happy because he was happy. Really happy, you know? Happy like I’d never seen her. That was the way she was around him. And she had pleased him, given him the child he wanted. At first when the old man came round it was great. He brought food - pomegranates, I remember those, and nuts, and cake with icing. They opened a bottle of wine and it was like a party…. A celebration.”

“D’you remember what he said?”

Birdie closed his eyes, trying to recall it. “He…. he raised his glass and said something about the birth of a new era, new hope. A victory for Cassandra, he said. The…. how did he put it? The start of the green. It's funny because he was all white. And cold. He brought the cold with him. But he was all for the green. I remember that. They were happy - laughing, drinking, eating and I was happy, the way you are when you know your ma’s okay.”

Julian kissed Birdie on the top of the head.

“Then what happened?” he asked.

Birdie, lost in thought did not reply. At last he said “I ….I fell asleep. I remember that. They’d given me some wine, and it was pretty late. I think I fell asleep with my head in Ma’s lap. When I woke up, they were having a row. A terrible row, Balthazar and the old man.”

“What were they fighting over?”

Birdie shook his head. “I… I can’t remember. I was so scared. I remember the feeling. That clutching in your chest - you know like falling off a cliff or something - remember that time I fell out of the oak tree? We were still really little, maybe nine or ten. That was what it felt like - that buzzing in your ears, when you’re just waiting for the hurt to come. And the old man was angry. So angry. He….. he was glowing. Cold white light was coming off him - it must have been some kind of magic, I guess, or power, and then ... then…. it was like the tower exploded. It was … I think it was lightning. Do you think it was lightning? It must have been lightning. And the green tower was all burned and black and we were running… through the rain. And Balthazar… Balthazar was gone. We never saw him again, not until that night in the garden. And…. you know the rest. Ma was never the same. But I told you about all that already.”

“And that… that was here?”

Birdie nodded. “I… I think so. Pretty sure. I recognized the tower …. on the map. And I remember what it was called. The Green Tower. And I recognized that glass peacock in the street. The minute we got here.”

Julian kissed Birdie hard, on the mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Birdie, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” said Birdie. “I… I don’t …. That’s not what I want.”

“What do you want?” said Julian.

Birdie kissed him, then pushed against him.

“This,” murmured Birdie. “I just want this.” And he kissed him again, and his hips swiveled and and Julian felt him, pressing in. His whole body yearned toward Birdie, every fiber of his being and he kissed him back, again and again, showers of kisses. They twined their bodies together and reached for each other as the last rosy glow faded from the mountains and the snow on them turned the color of blue smoke.


End file.
